


floriography

by bokutoma



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Found Family, Healing, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, M/M, Pining, Self-Hatred, Soft Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Sylvain Jose Gautier Being An Idiot, i'll provide descriptions to skip that part, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 27,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: glenn taught felix too much





	1. acacia rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joeri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/gifts).

> sirius im so fucking sorry

If there’s anything that Felix likes beyond training with the professor and maintaining the integrity of his blade, it’s walking through the monastery’s gardens.

It’s not something he necessarily likes to advertise; the more anyone knows about him, the more people try to talk, start conversations about inane bullshit he doesn’t care to hear about. Still, the fragrance of blooms in spring is soothing. It reminds him of Glenn, the things they used to do together when his brother had the time for him (when he was alive).

Glenn knew what each bloom meant, knew how to combine them into a bouquet that could convey the most precise meanings. Felix had learned a little from him, and as he passes by each bloom, he counts their meaning. He could go down to the greenhouse, see the variety that Professor Byleth has cultivated carefully, but there are always too many people down there. The Golden Deer are fond of pretty things, and his own classmates bask in it as well.

To be honest, when he feels like this, there aren’t many people he can stand to be around.

The acacia blossoms are scarce here, but they smell sweet. He misses Glenn, but he’ll never tell anyone. It’s been too easy to be painted as the villain, to be labeled callous and unfeeling, and if he says anything, there’s no way it won’t be twisted. Reasons for staying isolated are as numerous as the petals all around him, no matter what Seteth says.

Either way, once this year comes to a close, he will be alone again, a smudged ghost in a manor full of shadows.

Someone giggles from the other side of the hedge. He doesn’t need to hear the responding murmur to know that it’s Sylvain and another one of his girls, but he listens in anyway, plucking a flower just to tear it apart.

Every single one of Sylvain’s lines are overused blather, but Felix can picture how the girl must cling to him, stars in her eyes. He can hardly blame her for falling though, even if the lies are easy to pick apart. Sylvain is like a flame, bright and inviting; no matter the promise of danger, no one is immune to his draw.

The most Felix has ever been able to hope for is to not get burned.

He sinks to the ground, fiddling with the torn petals that stick to his palms, staining them like blood. That’s Sylvain’s sort of conquest, he supposed, and the thought makes his stomach turn.

“You look so lovely framed by the flowers,” Sylvain whispers, his voice like silk against sand, so soft Felix could lose himself forever. “If all angels looked like you, I’d be a devout man.”

She says something back, but Felix has learned to tune out the things he doesn’t want to hear, and instead, he closes his eyes and tries not to think about what he would say instead.

“I’m serious!” Sylvain says, and Felix can picture the look on his face, half smile as he leans over her, the kind of move that would get anyone but him kneed in the balls. “You’re a vision, like the Goddess took her time to make you just perfect.”

_You say that to everyone_, Felix thinks, but his heart flips at the thought of Sylvain telling him those same words.

“I’m almost afraid to touch you,” Sylvain continues. “You might not be real, and then I’d be heartbroken.”

_Then do it_. The thought is unbidden, and he clenches his fist, angry at his own weakness. _I’ll still be here_.

He’s had enough of this, and he pulls himself up using the greenery, unsubtle but no longer caring. A thorn stabs deep into the palm of his hand, but he doesn’t make a sound, blinking back tears that had never been there to begin with.

A leaf comes away in his hand when he pulls out the thorn.

_Rose leaf_, Glenn says, a ghost he can never shake off, _means there’s hope_.

He grinds it under his heel as he walks away.

Five years later, they’re on opposite sides of the war, and when Felix’s sword pierced Sylvain through the middle, he drags his best friend’s lance up to his heart.

“Together,” he says, hand wrapping around Sylvain’s own.

Sylvain looks lost, terrified. Still, he smiles, tears dripping down his face as they make the final push together.


	2. begonia warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> try again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way too long bc i spent ages projecting onto felix w a lil fictionalization

Felix is fucking tired of the “real world”.

It’s not like high school was easy; Glenn had died and life had been such a goddamn mess between the gap in the Fraldarius household and Rodrigue’s complete and total misunderstanding of everything his living son was. He had dropped out _twice_ \- Dimitri likes to joke that Felix has always been an overachiever - and in all that time, he had never once found anyone who even made an effort to understand like his only friend.

Still, working fucking blows.

College is still distant enough to be a dream, even though deadlines loom. If Felix can give his old man anything, it’s that despite his emotional distance, he’s at least present enough to remember that his son needs money to fucking live.

Odd jobs aren’t as shitty as they could be, considering. Coffee smells nicer than the foul stench of his father’s cologne, at any rate, and he can gulp down as many free cups as he wants, because nobody cares about the five dollar max when you’re a warm body doing an at least half decent job. His customer service is kind of ass, but his regulars like that, and frankly, he can’t quite bring himself to simper like everyone at Glenn’s funeral did.

_Therapy helps_, Dimitri has always preached, and really, Felix is sure it does, considering the incredible progress his best friend has made when it comes to dealing with his own and anger and grief. Rodrigue works differently, though, and an admission of sadness functions the same as admittance that Felix has been wrong all along. He’d rather die himself just to prove a point - grief isn’t a noble endeavor - but frankly, he’s not even sure Rodrigue would notice.

No, Felix has his own sort of therapy, and it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, so it’s a pretty good substitute, he thinks.

The flower shop on his way home is nice, quiet even during rush hour. He’s never really been one for crowds, and the softness of flowers isn’t exactly his style, but there’s something about this place that settles all the nerves that bubble up in his stomach. Glenn had liked flowers the same way he had liked art, with passive appreciation and genuine enjoyment, but no real desire to delve deeper. Felix, however, has always been the opposite; he first started coming out of a desire to understand his brother better. Once upon a time, there had been a girl who frequented the shop that Glenn had loved.

For Felix, though, there’s never been any way to enjoy something if he’s not good at it. There are little placards all over the store, each telling the meaning of the flowers put on display front and center. He’ll confess that there have even been some nights where he’s indulged himself in mindless study as well Whatever it takes to avoid his father and lull himself to sleep, he’ll do it.

They don’t bother him here; it’s pretty obvious from his permanent scowl that he wants to be left alone. Even then, some people have figured that he’ll get over the interruption, but here, where he buys a flower in an effort to guess what he might be feeling had he grown up even a little normal, they sense his mood and respect it. It’s more than he can say for his own family.

There’s someone new behind the counter when he comes in after work. He’s a redhead, the kind Felix has always had a weakness for _Being attracted to someone isn’t a weakness_, says the Dimitri inside his head. Looking at this man, the casual way he slouches against the counter, wreathes by begonias, Felix would have to disagree.

“Hey!” the attendant says, visibly perking up at the sight of a customer. Felix is almost impressed. “How can I help you?”

“You can’t,” Felix replies sharply. He’s not any ruder than usual, but he cringes internally anyway, because he didn’t mean to be rude to the poor customer service worker with deep brown eyes that seem far too familiar for a first meeting, really. It’s just that it’s a bit of a habit at this point, and he’s so goddamn sick of people as it is. It’s more of a habit than anything now.

“Oh, you must be Felix!” the attendant says, clearly unbothered, and it’s so astounding that he almost forgets to be concerned that the employees here talk about him. “Ingrid told me about you. She said you’re in here a lot. You must have a really special someone, huh?”

“No.” He doesn’t mean to be so unresponsive, but everything makes him tense these days, and the flowers above the attendant’s head taunt him. “They’re...for me, I guess.”

“Oh, self-care, huh? That’s super important.” The men is sliding out from behind the counter now, and Felix averts his gaze to the stems in front of him. More begonias taunt him, waving in the air conditioning. _Beware_. “You probably have one in mind already, but I can always suggest something. I have a perfect flower in mind for you.”

He should say no. This man looks like every dangerous specter that haunts him at night; he’s already worked behind Felix’s initial guard, and that’s more than anyone else has ever been able to do. Even Dimitri, the one person he’s ever really been able to count on, never had to make it past them. He had just always been there. This man, with his eyes so warm and face so close, is everything he doesn’t need right now, not with everything so fragile.

“What do you have in mind?” He does his best to remain unimpressed, but he’s almost certain he’s bright red.

The attendant brandishes a flower from behind his back, and Felix isn’t quite sure when he picked it up, but he recognizes the bloom immediately.

Camellia, white. _You’re adorable_.

If Felix wasn’t blushing before, he certainly is now.

“Do you always hit on customers via flower before introducing yourself?” he says, and he’s proud that the tremble taking over his body isn’t evident in his voice. “I can’t even give you any points for creativity.”

“At least you know what I’m trying to say to you,” he says, smiling widely. “And I’m Sylvain, by the way. You could have asked.”

“Maybe I don’t care.” It’s a blatant lie, because his hand is closing around the camellia stem, fingers a breath away from Sylvain’s but it feels better to say that. He’s tired of the real world, and what Sylvain is offering - _if_ he’s offering at all, because who would, really - feels too close to all of that. The comedown isn’t something he’s ever been prepared for, not with Glenn gone and Dimitri being...Dimitri, with all of his own trauma to work through. Begonias still hang in the corners of his vision, but right now, all he can see is red, prettier than any rose.

“Maybe you do,” Sylvain says, voice like honey, and Felix is gone.

“How much for this one?” he asks.

“For you, it’s on the house.”

When Felix walks out, the air smells sweet even after a car flies by.


	3. poppy fields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one’s for sylvix week bb

Felix waits until the camellia dies to return to the flower shop. It’s pretty impressive restraint he shows, all things considered, especially when all he wants to do is lose himself in a language few others know. People rely on him at work, despite the bite of his words and general standoffishness. It should be a compliment, he knows, because he’s more competent than everyone there by half, but one person can’t run a coffee shop by themselves. Even more than one station is impossible during a rush, and the pressure coalesces behind his eyelids and throbs at his temples.

Coming back in is sweet relief, and even though the riot of scents should make this semi-permanent headache crippling, they combine into a fragrance something like home.

Sylvain is behind the counter again, and he smiles when Felix comes in. This time, he has nothing to say, though, and Felix is grateful for it. Though his head doesn’t feel any worse, it hasn’t gotten better, either, and all he wants is to disappear into a cloud of petals and sleep the world off.

It’s warm outside, but he’s still freezing. Idly, he lets his fingers whisper across tender blooms, feeling heavy earth eyes trace his visage.

If his eyes flutter briefly shut when he traces the delicate underside of a poppy, then he’ll allow himself this little weakness.

* * *

There is no point to feelings for Felix Hugo Fraldarius. They bear no use; even anger merely serves no purpose but to distract him, make him sloppy in the heat of battle. Their very nature is the antithesis of everything he desires to be.

It’s the Goddess’s idea of a joke that he possesses them in such fierce strength. Dimitri has returned to his people in mind as well as body, in no small part due to the mysterious, unbreakable hold the professor has on him. The only thing that Felix loathes is that his father had to serve as the catalyst.

It shouldn’t be a shock that Rodrigue chose to die for his king. Dimitri had always been more than that to both of them, and even when jealousy and bitter longing had gripped his heart, Felix had known he would have done the same thing.

The only reason that remains for it to hurt as it does, like someone is flaying him from the inside out, is that no one thinks to ask if he’s alright.

The professor has done her best, of course, but she has her hands full with Dimitri, awakening as confused as a lost child. He doesn’t blame her as much as he wants to, not when he sees the threads binding them together. She and Mercedes have brought him flowers, and Byleth had snuck some of Rodrigue’s belongings out of his makeshift casket, delivered in the dead of night. He doesn’t necessarily want them, but it’s the gesture he appreciates.

Ingrid, though...That eats at him. Duty first, always, even at the expense of her oldest friendship. If he could be more logical, he’s sure he would comprehend the tactical importance of having the rightful king of Faerghus back in fighting shape, but right now, all he feels is abandonment pushing through his skin like new grass.

Sylvain is not here to make it better.

Sylvain is in the Adrestian Empire, plotting or following orders or _something_ while Felix mourns the only father he’s ever known, for better or for worse. He should hate him, he knows, think about Sylvain with the bitterness of Ingrid or the quiet anger of Ashe. He should despise Sylvain for breaking apart from them.

Instead, he just misses him.

Felix isn’t one for rumination, isn’t one for crying to ghosts that can’t hear him. Still, he sits down heavily by the poor gravestone marked *Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius* and wonders what he did wrong. What could he have done to make the only man he’s ever loved stay?

The wilted flowers by his father’s grave shed in the slight breeze and don’t answer. That’s okay. He wasn’t expecting one anyway.

* * *

“Felix,” a voice calls behind him, and he can’t help the way he jumps.

“Goddess, _what_?” he says, voice sharp as his eyes blink back open. Sylvain is standing behind him as he gets to his feet, bundle of poppies still in hand. To his credit, he looks sheepish even as he brandishes a white flower at him. When the pounding that reverberates through his skull subsided momentarily, Felix can recognize it as another poppy. “Are you hitting on me again?”

Sylvain’s laugh is melodic, and something about it is enough to startle the sluggishness from his veins. “No, you just looked like you needed this.”

_White poppy for consolation_, he remembers, and for a moment, Felix’s breath stutters in his chest. _Glenn..._

“Thanks,” he says, hoping he sounds at least halfway sarcastic as he adds it into the makeshift bouquet.

“No problem. Besides, bouquets look better when there’s an uneven number of flowers.”

Felix snorts, because that sounds like the exact sort of bullshit a florist might say to get a couple extra bucks. Still, he believes him. “Ring me up. I have places to be,”

“Of course, my lord,” Sylvain teases, sweeping into a bow. “Anything for you, Duke Felix.”

If that sparks familiarity against his spine, Felix won’t admit to anything.


	4. rosesick

Felix finally understands what persuaded Sylvain to leave his side when he’s sent to spy on the Imperial forces congregated closest to their camp. It’s Dorothea.

He gets it, almost, because while he never really got to know the songstress, it’s evident there’s no one she cares about more than her friends. She’s like him, really, only her experiences haven’t left her bereft of the ability to talk to others, the ability to convey what she means.

He just didn’t realize that Sylvain needed words, ones he’s never known how to give.

Sylvain laughs, open and wild in the way he had only ever been around the people he’d grown up with. When he smiles, too wide to be handsome, not narrow enough to be fake, he doesn’t hide it when Bernadetta approaches, step stuttering and shy. It’s warm enough for her, too, and Felix remembers how nice it had been to be on the other side of Sylvain’s happiness.

Faerghus has always been a cold place, devoid of excess and frivolity except in the most indulgent places. Despite his protests, it seems Sylvain is a hothouse lily.

Felix will never be enough for someone like that.

Sylvain has always been a wanderer, always been one to amble around during a conversation like there are a million places he has to be. If this were any other adversary, Felix would know what to do, would be frozen through in the way none of his classmates have been able to achieve regardless of their commitment to king, country, and cause. The point of his sword would be protruding from Sylvain’s heart, and he would go home, content with the knowledge that Edelgard had one fewer ally to rely upon.

It’s Sylvain, so he can do nothing but stew in the knowledge that the only person that has ever really had him is lost to him forever.

What’s the point of being numb if there’s still a part that feels, still a fragment of his fortress heart that beats for something other than blood?

Roses haunt his every step. Maybe if he rides himself of this last one, he will finally be free.

Unbidden, the thought that his parting gift to Sylvain will be the very same thing he had once mocked Dimitri for presenting to his crush rises to the forefront of his mind. He will never catch a break, it seems.

When the dagger with the hilt colored like blood embeds itself in the trunk of tree nearest to Sylvain, Felix is gone. He does not see the way Sylvain thumbs the engraved rose, and he does not watch as Sylvain’s face crumples into the closest thing to tears it’s been since Miklan breathed his last, since Miklan pushed him down the well. Even though he had been careful to avoid hitting Sylvain, Felix has reopened a wound that had only just begun to scab over.

He still hasn’t deadened, but that’s fine. For this, he can be patient; what other choice does he have?

* * *

Felix is going to combust if he keeps heading down this path, but he’s only a passenger, and there’s no wheel to avert this, to change course to something resembling “good for you”. He has the authority and the experience to be listened to, the wherewithal to know what should be done and when, yet he is undermined at every turn. It tastes too much like what every second of his life feels like, suffocating and dangerous.

There are ambitions he should have, he knows, but when the present feels like a struggle to stay afloat, they can do nothing but fall to the wayside.

Melancholy is a difficult enemy to combat.

His headset is half off, which is probably a crime punishable by passive-aggressive death to his managers, but he’s doing his work, speeding through the complicated latte some jackhole ordered in the drive-thru. It should be irritating, how liberal people can get with the menu, but this is comfortable, and even if he doesn’t like the sticky sugar smell of his hands, pastry caked and thick with other people’s winnings, espresso settle something deep inside him.

He finishes the drink off with a liberal helping of whipped cream - he may be irritable, but he’s not a monster - and when he opens the window to give this bastard their drink, it’s the surprised face of Sylvain that stares back at him.

If something constricts in his chest, he will steadfastly ignore it.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” Sylvain drawls, propping his head up and leaning against his hand. It should look ridiculous; it’s an awkward angle, and he’s doing it in the goddamn car of all places. Instead, it’s adjacent to endearing.

“Six eighty-three,” Felix replies, but a small smile twists his mouth anyway.

“Aw, come on, don’t be that way.” Still, he takes out his card and hands it over without any real complaint. “Hey, are you getting off soon?”

Felix can’t help the way his eyebrows raise at that; if he could, he might have emphasized it more. “Pardon me?”

Sylvain laughs, and Felix is almost offended. “Not like that, although I’m free tomorrow night,” he jokes. “Just wanted to know if I could give you any of these flowers.”

Sure enough, his passenger seat is bristling with bouquets, each one more lush than the last.

“You want to ruin one of these, something I’m assuming people paid for, just so you can hit on me again for a laugh?” Despite himself, Felix finds he’s leaning out the window now, arms braces against the bottom and folded. “Seems like it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“No one notices things like composition anyway.” The way waves his hands dismissively should make him mad; it would if it were anyone else. There’s something believable about him when he talks about his work, though, like the pretense Felix can smell from a mile away drops a little. “Besides, I’m an expert when it comes to pretty things. I’ll have it looking better than before in no time.”

“Yes.”

Sylvain looks confused, but Felix can hear the buzz of irritation where his headset rests against his neck, and he knows he needs to make this brief. “Give it.”

The smile Sylvain wears is beatific, and though Felix isn’t one for worship, there’s something there that’s praiseworthy. He watches the expression turn sly as his hands hover over a coral rose.

“This one would suit you, I think,” he teases, and when Felix himself erupt, lava flow staining his cheeks, he knows that had been Sylvain’s goal.

“Quit fucking around, you bastard.”

When Sylvain gives him a yellow rose, Felix’s heart stutters against his chest. _Ah, so this is what friendship feels like_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas, i finally got off my ass and updated
> 
> twitter @kingblaiddyd


	5. a genuine fake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slice of life (before it all goes wrong // before it all goes right)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slipping in some vague references to gnc felix oops!!

Once upon a time, before the war had started and Sylvain had left Felix behind for a final time, the professor had decided that her students, already battle-hardened by virtue of their Faerghus heritage and further strengthened under her tutelage, should be more than capable of going on missions designed for a lesser, stronger set of units.

This one, in particular, saw Felix and Sylvain partnered together, and from the outset, Felix had expected everything to go terribly wrong.

Bandits had never been a particular challenge for either of them, but the professor had specifically warned them, and as much as he loathed being restrained, even he had to admit she wouldn’t have done so without good reason.

Which had led to their current situation, Felix with an elaborate plait in his hair, a face full of makeup, and clad in an elegant dress, sullenly listening to Sylvain’s instructions.

“To woo a man, you’ve got to be charming. Everyone’s got a different kind, so for you, we’ll go with...reserved. A real classy sort.”

“So why the fuck would I want to be with bandits?” Felix muttered, trying not to rub at his face.

“For protection, of course. I know the professor got you back up to speed on our old dancing lessons, so you can offer entertainment in exchange for a place to sleep at night. Then you let me in while they sleep, and we kill their sorry asses before they even have the chance to wake up.”

“And if they want something else for entertainment?” he said, arching a now finely combed eyebrow.

“Then you use your sheer rage to bear the shit out of them. It’s not like I’ll be far away.”

“You are so incredibly fucking stupid.”

Still, in the present, he is walking with all the poise Byleth’s lessons had granted him, trying to remember Dorothea’s gait in the hopes it might lend him a level of seduction. He’d expected this to feel wrong somehow, but he almost likes the freedom of movement the dress grants him. He feels...different, but in a good way, and with the daggers strapped to his thigh, he’s almost content.

“You look pretty,” Sylvain says, plucking a flower from a bush to weave it into Felix’s hair. “It would take everything a person had not to fall in love with you.”

“Shut up.” It hurts because these lines are as easy as lance work to Sylvain, but Goddess, Felix wants to hear more of them.

Sylvain just laughs, easy as anything, and when his fingers brush Felix’s cheek, he doesn’t lose his composure.

Felix kind of hates that.

“Snapdragon,” Sylvain says, barely a couple of feet away, and this ache has formed into a maddening pulsation, one that might torment him endlessly. “Glenn once told me that it was best given to a graceful woman.”

“It also means deception,” Felix replies, sharp as his sword, laying still in their makeshift campsite. “So I guess it is fitting after all.”

Sylvain pulls back, and Felix can’t decide whether he’s relieved.

“Go get them, dearest,” he says, his voice a soft tease. “Knock ‘em dead.”

* * *

It’s kind of his own fault that he’s so close to his breaking point. He shouldn’t have listened in on the conversation his managers were having, but frankly, Felix had just been hoping for something mildly amusing that could carry him through the rest of this fucking shift, maybe a dig on one of the coworkers he hated. Besides, he was just taking his break; they didn’t need to be so goddamn loud.

He had not at all been expecting them to call him belligerent and argumentative. He hadn’t expected them to want to pull him in for a talk. He _definitely_ hadn’t expected them to dare claim he wasn’t getting work done, not when he’s been the fucking spearhead when it comes to countering the inertia, the entropy of this entire shitty shop.

He’s going to quit. That’s the only way they’re going to see what they’re missing, when they’re sprinting from place to place, wondering how he gets the stubborn espresso machine to work (you have to worm your hand behind the damn thing and knock it back into shape).

It’s not like he’s ever really been appreciated, either. He just likes what he does, likes seeing people take that first sip and smile subconsciously.

There’s not a point to this line of thought, though, not now, when he still has a full shift to finish, people that rely on him to get shit done.

(“_What have you done for this family, Felix Hugo Fraldarius? Glenn was brave, Glenn was noble, and all you ever do is complain_!”)

By the time he clocks out, he’s fighting back an all too familiar sting in his eyes. _It’s allergies_, he tries to tell himself, but there’s no point in lying.

His feet trace a familiar path, and before he can even really register where he’s going, he’s in the flower shop.

Sylvain isn’t behind the counter, and though he knows he should be relieved, Felix finds himself longing for the comfort of his meaningless flirtations, the way he always seems to know what to say. It’s Ingrid this time, though, and he supposes that’s almost as good. Dimitri is too busy to meet with him most days through no fault but scheduling, and she is the next closest thing to a friend that he has.

“Felix!” she calls, warm around the brownie she’s just shoved into her mouth. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

He just nods, still steaming, but he’ll be damned if he isolates himself even more, especially if that means becoming an asshole customer. “I’ve been in.”

A resoundingly loud crash echoes from the back room and both Felix and Ingrid whip towards the doorway only to see a familiar mop of red hair poking out.

“That one was your fault, you know,” Sylvain says, pointing an accusatory finger at Ingrid. “You’ve been teasing me all day by saying he was here, and now that he’s actually in, you don’t have the decency to warn me? You’re a fake friend, Ingrid.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed a warning,” Felix responds instead of letting her say anything, except he shouldn’t have at all. It comes out icy and bitter, the memory of what had been said nipping at the back of his throat.

Ingrid looks lost for words; she’s never seen him serious in his ire except when someone had barked at her. It doesn’t think she knows how to handle this side of him.

Sylvain is nonplussed, though, and Felix wonders if he really sees through him that clearly or if he just doesn’t care.

“I’m excited, dipshit.” He dodges Ingrid’s smack with an ease that speaks of practice, and when Felix sees the arm he’s placed behind his back, he knows exactly what he’s in for. “I think you’ll like this one. It’s kind of perfect for us.”

Felix is so busy tripping over the word _us_ that he almost misses the flower itself, a beautiful gladiolus that makes him do something he can’t recall ever having done.

He snorts.

It’s not the dismissive kind either, but one full of life and laughter. The bloom is so stupidly Sylvain that it almost hurts to look at, and at that moment, everything else lifts, and he is something close to happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on twitter @kingblaiddyd for fic updates/general bullshit


	6. crushed violets

Felix is eight when they make the promise, the one that will haunt his every step for as long as the two of them will live. Perhaps he’d known that even then, as much as a child who has tasted nothing but privilege can comprehend such heavy words, but even with the weight of experience and hindsight, there is no doubt that he would make the same decision a thousand times over.

Felix makes the promise, insists on it, because he can feel Sylvain pulling away, two years and a wealth of unknowns ahead of him.

Desperation should not have fueled the acceleration of their tender bond, but Felix is eight years old and his favorite person in the world (bar Glenn, but that goes without saying) is already thinking of women and politics. Sylvain is moving to a place he cannot follow, a place he will never be able to meet him as a second son.

_It’s unfair_, he thinks, all the truth of a child bubbling over in his frustration. _We should be the same. We should be able to be like this forever._

He is always chasing, but when Sylvain turns and lets him catch up, he can’t help but be grateful for what he has.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have really nice hair, Fe?” Sylvain asks as they perch together like nesting birds, balanced on the same branch of the tallest tree on the Fraldarius estate. It will be a few more years before their combined weight makes it groan, and six months after that, it will snap and send them near to crashing.

After that, they won’t climb trees anymore, at least not together, but that has less to do with that particular incident than it does the fact that their whole world will have fallen off a branch of its own.

For now, though, they are blissfully ignorant, and Sylvain has just asked one of his particular brand of weird questions, the kind that makes Felix wonder if there’s a joke he’s missing out on.

“It’s just hair,” he says, jutting out his lower lip in embarrassment. “What makes hair special?”

Sylvain sighs in that way that’s probably supposed to sound condescending but mostly just sounds like he’s happy to have something to teach Felix. “Well, lots of things, really. It’s a pretty color, for one, and it’s really thick and soft.”

Felix isn’t sure that his hair is _particularly_ thick or _particularly_ soft, actually, but Sylvain is the one who spends more time touching it, braiding it, and playing with it, so maybe he’s right. Either way, he’s kind of pleased that Sylvain has thought about it so much.

“You can braid it if you want,” he says, and if he’s embarrassed, he doesn’t know how to hide it yet. Instead, his eyes are carefully trained on the bird perched on the tree opposite, weaving one of its own feathers into the nest it’s building. “You don’t have to, though.”

Even from the corner of his eye, Felix can see that Sylvain’s smile is blinding, and like the sun, it warms him from the inside out.

“Are you kidding me, Fe? I’d love to! See if you can turn a little so I can do a better job.”

He nearly falls off the branch; even if it is thick, it’s not meant to support such a large, squirming being. He catches himself, though, and Sylvain’s hand is there half a moment later, and there’s never been any doubt in Felix’s mind that he can trust his best friend with his life.

While Sylvain tries to resolve Felix’s shorter than usual hair into something a braid, Felix watches the bird again, watches it find a violet, half-crushed, blue, and beautiful, to tuck into its creation as well.

“Hey, Syl?” he asks, twin stars lighting his face again. “Will you make me a promise?”

The fingers at the nape of his neck don’t pause, but they do seem something close to thoughtfulness. “Sure. Anything you want.”

"Don't leave me behind, okay? We stay together until we die together."

Sylvain laughs, but Felix doesn't even have the time to work himself up to proper offense before he's speaking again. "That's it?"

"Hey!"

Sylvain's finger thumps against his neck, and there's a brand left behind on Felix's skin. "Of course I will, dummy. I was already planning on being around so much that you'll be sick of me."

"I wouldn't!" Felix protests hotly.

And well...best intentions, and all that.

* * *

Felix is going to quit his job.

This isn't the impassioned declaration he gives every time he sees Dimitri either. It's not the product of working himself into a fury, pacing grooves into the decades-old carpet at the foot of his bed either. No, this is a genuine, honest resolution to a problem that has been plaguing him for far too long. Dimitri's therapist would be proud; Felix gets the feeling that she's heard a lot about him already.

Still, there's something about the idea that chokes at him; once upon a time, this had been the one escape he'd been able to claim from the oppressive air of the Fraldarius household, a way to ensure that he wouldn't be around for the desperate screams or the pregnant silences.

It's for the best, though. He's becoming more like Rodrigue than he had ever thought possible.

One step at a time. That's all that Felix has ever known how to do, and his next step, he knows, is one that might be impossible to swallow.

He's going to ask for help.

By the time he's pushing open the shop doors, his hair is halfway to collapsing from its bun, barely holding up under searching fingers. This is very possibly the worst idea that he's ever had, but Dimitri had thought that it was a solid plan, and, loath as he is to say it, Felix trusts him implicitly.

If this goes awry, though, at least he'll have someone to blame while he sulks around in a jobless stupor.

"Hi, welcome in - oh, Felix! It's you!"

Yeah, Felix would recognize that voice anywhere now. Too bad it's not him he had come to see.

"I thought Ingrid normally worked today."

Sylvain pouts behind the counter, twirling a pocketknife expertly between his fingers. (It's kind of hot. Felix will die before he admits that.) "Some kind of family thing, I think. Why, you aren't happy to see me?"

Steadfastly ignoring the question is the best response he could hope to get, and Sylvain must pick up on that, because he's grinning when Felix unceremoniously drops his stuff on the counter.

"Aw, come on, I'm sure I'll be more helpful than old Ingy. What did you come in for?"

If Felix leaves now, he knows he's not going to come back.

"Tell me how to get an in at the cafés near here," he demands. It's easier that way. "I want to interview, but I don't want to waste my time."

Sylvain's thumb traces circles around the engraving on the hilt of his knife - a rose, beautiful and worn enough that Felix can tell this is a habit. It feels important, but maybe that's because he's already putting together a dozen scathing comments on the corniness of bringing that to _his_ workplace.

"Demanding, aren't you?" he asks, but he's still smiling. "What are you going to do for me if I help you out?"

"_Not_ leave you in an alley for the cats?"

Sylvain doesn't dignify that with anything more than a snort, which is fair. "Let me take you out. We can talk about it over dinner sometime soon."

At this point in his life, Felix should probably know how to stop himself from turning the color of an old fire hydrant at the smallest provocation. In his defense, though, he wouldn't call this one _small_. "Are you asking me on a date?"

Sylvain shakes his head. "As much as you're my type, I don't date people I actually enjoy spending time around," he says, dropping a wink. "I just wanna get to know you. Ingrid thinks you're cool, and that never happens."

And Felix is still suspicious, because Sylvain is nothing but vibrant and wonderful, but there's something trustworthy about him all the same. Dimitri has been begging him to put himself out there for years, but with the shadow of Glenn resting on his shoulder, there had been few he could trust to lift the burden even for a small time.

He doesn't know Sylvain other than through the conversations they've had here at the flower shop. He doesn't know him at all. The honest truth is that there's nobody less likely to stick around than this flighty, charming man.

"Alright," Felix says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @kingblaiddyd on twitter! no i have not played the dlc please don't bully me


	7. orange you glad?

Glenn is dead, the funeral procession acts as though this is a good thing, and Felix and Sylvain leave marigolds on his grave.

What more is there to say but that?

* * *

What do you wear on a not-date with someone who might not really consider you their friend?

This is possibly the worst dilemma he's ever inflicted on himself, ever found himself entrenched himself in. He is not the sort to dress up or impress, and frankly, he doesn't even want to _begin_ to examine what it means that he's beginning to do so in the here and now. The internal voice that has always sounded like Dimitri tells him that this is growth, that he's opening up and learning to be vulnerable. He screws his face up and mocks mini-Dimitri mercilessly in the mirror.

In the end, he decides that something only he will notice as better than his usual attire will suffice. The sweater he pulls on has cutouts at the arms, and the jeans he tugs on are high-waisted and have only been worn once since their last wash - practically brand new.

God, what a catch he is.

Rodrigue doesn't hear him as he slips toward the front of the house, but that's fine; Felix only communicates in notes and secret languages nowadays. A post-it slapped in the center of the door with a little more force than necessary, and he's good to go.

The air feels thinner out here in the open, and he's grateful for it. It tastes crisp and cool, and there's an absurd feeling blooming in his chest, like happiness but indefinitely more grounding. Relief, maybe, tinged with an all-consuming sadness.

He wishes it would rain so he can stop feeling this way.

If he gets any looks on his walk toward whatever shithole Sylvain has picked out (it's probably nice, he knows, but he's in an uncharitable sort of mood), he ignores them in favor of hoping the chill will explain the shaking of his hands.

* * *

Yes, by the time he makes it to the hole in the wall Mexican restaurant that Sylvain texted him after getting his number, Felix is genuinely shaking. Despite living in it for years, he's never quite adapted to the cold, and anticipation and anxiety even less. Still, he's not eager to get inside, not eager to figure out what's in store for him tonight. There's a reason he doesn't spend time with new people, and he's never been eager to play catch-up.

If he stands out here, perpetual potential energy, he never has to find out what it feels like when Sylvain decides he's not worth the effort.

At the very least, though, he'll be getting free nacho out of the deal, and he can't sit out here forever. Maybe, if this goes south, he can sulk among some empanadas as well.

Rationalization put to the test and behind him, Felix squares his shoulders and goes inside.

From the second he opens the door, it's a riot of the senses. The heavy scent of slightly-charred beef hangs mouthwateringly in the air, and the acoustics of the room has risen the family chatter to a dull roar. Everything in the room blurs together into the same three shades of sunshiny orange-yellow.

He should hate it more than anything, this building of sensory overload, but in a way, it's comforting. All of the attention is undoubtedly off of him. If anything happens, life will go on, and he'll still have a stomach full of food and time away from home.

(_Why are you so anxious_? a particularly vicious, vindictive part of his mind asks. _Why do you care so much about what one stupid man thinks of you_?

_I don't_, he protests. Every inch of him knows this is a lie.

_Coward. Liar. You want something of him_.

_Remember_.)

Sylvain is sitting at a booth in the back, and when he spots Felix, every inch of him lights up and he waves wildly. It's...almost nice, to be welcomed this way, even if he has to duck around three separate waiters just to reach him.

"Felix!" he calls, far too loud even for this place. "I'm glad you actually came!"

The plastic covering of the booth sticks at him even through his clothes, and he wonders why he wasted a perfectly good outfit on this. "You said you'd help, yes? Why wouldn't I come?"

Somehow, this seems to please Sylvain, and Felix can't help but watch the corners of his mouth tug into a wider smile. There's no accounting for taste, he supposes.

"Are you kidding me? Ingrid didn't even believe me when I told her that we were hanging out!" Sylvain is expressive in a way very few people that Felix has known are. It's annoying, or would be if he didn't know how to weaponize the parts of him that are most attractive. "Honestly, she had me half-convinced that you only said yes so you could laugh at me later."

Again, that feeling that only comes during moments like these lances through his chest. "Is that what you think of me?" he snaps, bitter, and knowing that he's only solidifying that opinion strengthens it. "That I'm a dick for fun?"

God, Felix can't figure out whether Sylvain is an idiot or a saint. With that stupid look on his face, beatific and understanding, it really could be either. "Not at all," he says, and Felix wants to hate him so badly.

"Then why even say that? Why think it?"

Sylvain's laugh is not an unkind thing. That doesn't help. "You have to know that you're intimidating, right? There's no way that a logical person like Ingrid would look at you, all stern and serious, and think that you would ever want to spend time around me."

"And no one would think that you-" Here Felix waves, face warm and skin itchy. "Would ever want to spend time with surly, bitchy me."

Their waitress comes then, so whatever Sylvain would have said to that is held on the tip of his tongue while they order. Felix can read it in the way he chews on his lip, the nervous energy that causes him to shift from side to side.

He's gonna need a fuckton of empanadas to get through this one.

When she leaves, though, the few seconds that Felix's eyes are off of him seem to be enough for Sylvain to gather himself again.

"I guess we were both wrong," he says, and Felix can't bring himself to counter. Sylvain picks at the centerpiece like he's the one who designed it, the shadow of a smile, peeking up from behind his lashes as he flicks his gaze up and presents him with a flower.

"Orange blossom," he says, the wide grin he had been wearing earlier softened into something crooked and hesitant.

Because he's a bastard, Felix huffs. "Mock orange, isn't it? Not very good at your job, are you?"

There's something ugly in the laugh that startles out of Sylvain, something that almost makes Felix want to smile as well. "I was hoping you couldn't tell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @kingblaiddyd let's go


	8. the scent of death

It's raining when they die.

How Felix knows that Sylvain is crying, there on that battlefield that they should never have stepped foot on, never should have opposed each other on, is a mystery.

Except it isn't.

Every expression his _stupid, beloved_ best friend has ever made is carefully cataloged in the corner of his mind that has whispered Sylvain's name like a chant in the darkness for over a decade. The way his face screws up is barely perceptible by any other person's standards, but Felix knows him like he knows no one else, and as the steel tip of Sylvain's lance punches through yielding flesh, he knows what he sees.

If he's crying too, death is as good a time as any to admit it.

"Syl," he whispers, mouth shaping sounds he can only just manage to push out. Sylvain knows him all the same.

"Hey there, Fe," he whispers back, and Felix does his damn best to ignore the visible sinew that peeks out from where he parted flesh. "How are you doing today?"

He can't help the laugh that springs out of him from that, even as every inch of his body stings and a bubble of blood and mucus bursts from his mouth to splatter in thick clumps against the side of his face. Sylvain sways, and Felix goes to meet him, braced against each other with numbing hands.

When they hit the ground, they hit it hard.

"I'm having a pretty bad day," Felix finally musters the strength to speak again, and it's kind of worth the effort it takes to tug his mouth into something resembling a smile to see Sylvain mirror him.

"Honestly, this might be one of my better ones."

It would be all too easy to write that off as a joke, wouldn't it? Sylvain Jose Gautier, a joker until the end.

But Felix has been there for many of the worst - the smell of slowed blood and ice shouldn't have been so strong, shouldn't have been detectable - and has a separate catalog for each and every one. Brackish water, the faint cling of lightning after a strong faith spell, blood and bruises and broken bones, they all sing so strongly to him.

Has Felix betrayed him too?

He already knows the answer to that one.

"Glad I could be here to celebrate it with you, then." It should sound like a cruel joke, sour, unapproachable Felix, bitter even as he lays dying in the mud and the cloying rain. Sylvain smiles instead, and it's so painfully genuine that another pang of regret grips him, worse than the hole that exposes his heart. Felix knows physical pain, craves it, but the rawness of their bond has always been his biggest weakness.

"There's no one I would rather die with," Sylvain says, traces of his usual humor present as he manages a wink. In another life, perhaps there would have been another reason for Felix to hear him so breathless.

"Me too."

After all of this, Sylvain still looks surprised when he admits it. It's fair, but the bitterness that rises to meet Felix's tongue has less to do with the blood that's threatening to choke him and more to do with his own shortcomings.

Still, even this close to the end of themselves, Sylvain has always been quick on his feet.

"Then the Goddess surely must have blessed us, to be reunited this way when I've done little to deserve it."

"And I even less," Felix confesses. What harm can come to him now that he hasn't already endured? "I've never been worthy of you."

For all his faults, Sylvain still looks at him as though he'd hung every star by hand. "Fe..."

"I've been selfish and demanding since the day we met, Sylvain." With a start, he realizes he's crying now too. Somehow, it doesn't feel like quite the weakness he'd always thought it was. "You'd think I would have grown out of it by now."

"You're always known what you've wanted and gone after it." Blood flows freely from Sylvain's nose now, and even the downpour that cascades down onto them can't dilute the pure crimson redness, the life that drains from him. "I admire that more than I can say."

"You did it too." Felix waves a heavy hand weakly. "Look at you. I can't begrudge you leaving me when it means that you got to fight for what you wanted."

It burns when Sylvain tugs him closer, but Felix would endure it a thousand times over just to have this single, final moment.

Around them, the field is littered with the bodies of the Empire's battalions, masks of the dark mages askew and spilling their stuffing, crushes flowers like the petals that line the aisles of weddings. Just above the stench of meat and bile is the aroma of a thousand striped carnations.

Goddess, Felix has been a fool.

"I love you," he whispers quietly, pressing his face into the unforgiving armor that rests by his cheek. "More than I think I've loved anyone in my whole, miserable life."

Sylvain's laugh is wet with more than tears. Each word takes more out of them than they should even get. "That's an awfully cruel thing to say to a dying man, Fe."

"Then I die as selfishly as I lived." His fingers are cold. Hadn't the air been warmer than this? "It's still true."

"I love you too, in case you hadn't guessed." Sylvain's tired resignation is more beautiful than a thousand smiling faces. "Suppose that's all my secrets laid bare."

"Only the one?"

"I've never kept many from you."

Felix's vision is blurry around the edges; he isn't long for this world, he knows, and Sylvain even less so. Now he takes a look at the wound he'd inflicted, the one that shouldn't have even granted them these scant few minutes. He drinks in the parted muscle, the inner workings of the man who is and always will be everything to him, a safe harbor in the storm of his own creation.

"Would it be weird to say that I'm happy right now?" he says, tongue barely cooperating.

"Not unless you think it's weird that I am too."

Even if nothing else has gone the way Felix has wanted, at least he has this.

It's almost enough to die in peace.

* * *

Felix Hugo Fraldarius wakes up to the taste of blood on his tongue where he's bitten through. Pain blooms in his shoulder where it knocks into a foreign object in his nightstand, and when he finally manages to turn on his light switch, he's still swearing.

There, lying in shards of a broken vase and spilled water, is a small bouquet of carnations.


	9. anemone enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this early update brought to you by kadmin! thanks so much <3333

Nights without Sylvain are eternal. It's one of the first things that Felix learns in this new life without him. They shouldn't be; after all, there are probably a thousand nights he's spent alone for every one that he'd shared, but that knowledge doesn't make the feeling any less true.

It's been a month since Felix split from the rest of the Lions (now soldiers of Faerghus), and two since the last time he'd seen Sylvain.

They hadn't fought side by side as Edelgard attacked Garreg Mach. For all that Sylvain had defected to the Black Eagles for their school days, Felix had thought it to be merely that: school. _Surely he wasn't serious_, he had thought. _Surely he'll come home when the year is done_.

Foolishness from he who should have known better. For all of his childhood friends' individual strengths, Sylvain had always been the cleverest of them all.

Maybe he'd known of Edelgard's plans sooner than they'd all assumed. If anything is worth fighting for, Sylvain would think it to be the opposite of the Crest system.

If it's worth more than his best friend to Sylvain, perhaps Felix can forgive him this.

The nights are long, though, and no justification can change that irrefutable fact.

* * *

Sylvain might be a giant fucking loser, but he does give pretty detailed job hunting advice.

Felix has sent out three applications by this point (with a smile that's all teeth whenever anyone makes a snide comment about people who are always on their phones), and so far, he's gotten emails about scheduling interviews for two of them.

Besides, the company hadn't been bad either.

Despite his spiked edges, Felix had managed to let his guard down by the time the empanadas he had been craving came out. Once the food hit his stomach, though, that had been a whole different ballgame. Behind that careful veneer of empty flirtation, Sylvain is _funny_.

Not that Felix has a broad reference, of course. Rodrigue barely smiles in his presence, and Dimitri's sense of humor is worse than a room full of middle-aged fathers.

Still, Sylvain's company had been...pleasant, and if Felix isn't mistaken, he thinks Sylvain may have felt the same.

He's thinking about thanking him; nothing special, of course, considering he doesn't want Sylvain to get the wrong idea. Not that Sylvain would accept even if he misunderstood Felix's intentions.

_As much as you're my type, I don't date people I actually enjoy spending time around_.

Now, why did that pop into his head?

It doesn't matter. Felix has plans with Dimitri - the bastard had actually found some spare time in his golden boy schedule - and after, he's got his first interview. Besides, there's nothing to thank Sylvain for until he gets one of the jobs.

Thus far, Dimitri hasn't mentioned the flower shop, even as Felix finds himself referencing it more and more in their sporadic texts. He's got the sense that Dimitri is waiting for him to explain this new fixation with anyone other than Ingrid (who he likes _far_ more than anyone should like someone who relentlessly teases their best friend). Felix won't, of course, but Dimitri will respect that. He's good that way, loath as he might be to say it.

There's a knock on his bedroom door.

"Felix," Rodrigue says through the wooden paneling. "Can I ask you something?"

There's a trembling in Felix's hands that demands he refuse and insists he rage at his father. _Breathe_, Dimitri's voice whispers softly in the back of his head.

Felix listens.

"Go ahead." It's not pleasant, the tone of his voice, more like skinned knees with gravel under the skin, but it's an attempt. He thinks he can count that as a win.

"I understand if you didn't want the flowers I left you," Rodrigue says, and he sounds so fucking tired that Felix wants to cry. "But did you have to break the vase as well?"

"I knocked it over when I was half-asleep, old man." _I did want them_. "Not everything I do is to spite you. Usually, there's a pretty goddamn good reason for it."

Even through the door, the sigh Rodrigue gives is plenty audible. He leaves, though, and that's all that matters, even if Felix still feels guilt twisting in his stomach like a needle and thread.

_Fuck_, he's a wreck.

Dimitri is here, though, and he's insufferable if he's left waiting for more than a minute. With a sigh of his own that could rival Rodrigue's, Felix hauls his stuff together and slips out the door.

* * *

It's late, and the land outside of the Fraldarius estate is by no means safe, but Felix can't sleep. It's almost alarming how easy it is to avoid detection, but then, he's been doing this since he was young.

Glenn had always known where the weak spots were, no matter who had been patrolling.

The greenery is sparse this far north, nothing compared to the verdant growths of the Garreg Mach greenhouse, but there are places that have been carefully cultivated, places where, with a bit of magic and plenty of perseverance, even the most fragile of spring flowers can bloom.

Felix Hugo Fraldarius kneels among the anemone and cries for all he's worth.

He gets the feeling that's not much.


	10. you are my sweet pea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this early chap made possible by ludo! thanks so much <333

It's not that Felix has been avoiding Sylvain, necessarily. After all, it's not as though, for all that Fraldarius and Gautier neighbor each other, they're _actually_ neighbors. They see each other once a month at most, and never more than for a week at a time. More generally, they'll go two or three months with nothing more than a couple of letters to tide them over.

Whatever Ingrid seems to think, Felix isn't avoiding Sylvain.

His father has only had cause to intersect with the Gautier family twice in the past six months, and if he has either been too busy or too disinterested to attend these affairs of the dukedom and of Faerghus at large, that's understandable. After all, he's always been more interested in combat than in people; it had only been a matter of time until that inclination superseded his desire for friendship, right?

The undeniable truth, however, is that Felix has done the dumbest damned thing he could have ever imagined.

His heart ceases to beat when he lays eyes on Sylvain.

Fuck, even Dimitri would be a more likely candidate when it comes to returning his feelings, and Felix knows he's made his thoughts on that subject clear.

So here, as he rides to Garreg Mach with a small contingent of the Fraldarius force, he is most certainly not avoiding the inevitable struggle that will ensue the moment he lays eyes on his best friend.

That Rodrigue isn't riding with him as planned is a small mercy; Felix knows that his father has caught on to the unusual (even for him) downturn in his mood, and with nowhere to escape, he would really prefer not to subject himself to an inquisition when he needs this time to prepare. Well-meaning though his father may be, it's difficult to endure his attentions for long.

The roads have been rough on the way down to the monastery that is to serve as his temporary home, but close as they are, less than an hour from that which Felix fears most, they've begun to smooth out as they find roads more readily traveled.

"My lord," a soldier calls, and he has to suppress his rage at hearing the title which by all rights should not be his. "We must stop here. His Grace wishes for us to meet with Margrave Gautier's son and Count Galatea's daughter before we push any further."

Oh, _fuck_ Rodrigue. Not that he had any idea what kind of turmoil he's putting Felix through, but the point still stands regardless.

"Wonderful," he says because he really can't help himself. "Well, stop then."

They don't have to wait long for Ingrid, punctual almost to a fault as she is, and Sylvain follows not far behind. Of course, he's clutching a small bundle of flowers - likely the source of the slight delay - and Felix's lip curls instinctively at the sight.

"Ingrid! Felix! Two of my favorite people," he shouts as his entourage approaches. "So glad to see you both again."

"The feeling isn't mutual," Felix snarls back, and if Ingrid glares at him, if the edges of Sylvain's wide smile waver, he _doesn't care_.

Still, Sylvain nudges his horse closer, guides it to line up with Felix's, and Felix, sorry bastard that he is, lets him.

"Would flowers make the sting of my absence feel better?" he asks, brandishing his tiny bouquet with cheer. "They're arbutus, in case that makes a difference. One of the knights told me."

"Aren't you saving those for a date?" There's the same amount of venom placed on _date_ as another person might have put on _poison_ or _mucking out the stables_. "I would _hate_ for you to have wasted your precious time."

"Aw, come on! It's not a waste if it's you."

They ride further as Ingrid decides she's had enough of their bickering, and as they both lapse into silence, the bouquet somehow having made its way into Felix's pack, he swears to himself that he won't try to find out what these mean.

_It's a coincidence_, he berates himself, but he's not certain whether it would be worse if the meaning turned out positive or negative.

As he watches Sylvain from the corner of his eye, studies the peaceful gaze that softens him when he doesn't think he's on display, he thinks he knows the answer.

* * *

"You know," Dimitri starts as they amble along the surprisingly pedestrian-free sidewalks. "I'm very proud of you for taking action to change your situation. You know I've never liked how they treat you at work."

Felix gags audibly, but it's a struggle to do so through the small smile that twitches at his lips and his best friend knows it. "Thanks for page fifty-two of _How to Be an Amateur Therapist_, you fucking nerd."

"Fifty-three, actually."

That actually does get a solid laugh out of Felix. "I do kind of hate you now."

"Yes, that phone call we had last week where you started crying and telling me how happy you were for me-"

"Hey, shut up!" Felix may be strong, especially considering his frame, but when he smacks Dimitri, the bastard barely feels it. "Or should I send your work friends that video of you bawling over that dog in the pet store we went to?"

It's not a real threat; at this point, Dimitri is practically immune to being embarrassed purely because of his own tendency to stick his foot in his mouth. Still, he relents with only a wide smile to speak of how ridiculous he finds the whole situation, and Felix is grateful.

"Is this the place?" Dimitri asks as they round a corner to find a small coffee shop.

"It is." Felix's palms are already sweaty with pre-interview nerves, but he thinks he's keeping it together pretty well, all things considered. "Are you planning on sticking around?"

"Obviously. I'm going to make faces at you behind the interviewer's back."

That's the most blatant lie he's ever heard from his unfailingly polite best friend, but it does take the edge off, so he'll at least make a play at being grateful. "Make them good ones. If I'm going to get booted out. I want you to at least trample your dignity in the process."

Dimitri holds the door open for him, which would get any other man punched in the throat, but as it is, Felix just goes inside.

The interior of Earth's Bounty cafe is charmingly homey (and makes him want to hurl from even thinking that), with more plush armchairs and sofas than there are traditional seating. The scent of spiced meat and espresso isn't as unpleasant a combination as Felix might have thought.

Much to his chagrin, Felix likes it here.

Dimitri seems to have much the same reaction. "If you get the job, I'm going to come here every day you work."

"You wouldn't dare." Of course, they both know he would.

The beautiful blond bastard that he is, Dimitri merely smiles beatifically and follows him to the counter.

The barista settled behind the counter is making at least three drinks at the same time, which is impressive even by Felix's incredibly high standards. He might have been considered nearly alarmingly large, considering both his height and incredible breadth, but considering the heights of the assholes Felix is now spending time around, it feels like the natural progression of things.

What does _not_ feel that way, however, is the way that Dimitri's eyes widen in recognition. "Dedue?"

The barista looks up (and really, no one has the right to look that peaceful while they're doing so many things at once), startled, but breaks into a small smile at the sight of them. "Dimitri," he says by way of acknowledgment. "It's been quite a while."

"Indeed, my friend!" Felix has to suppress a snort at the easy way Dimitri shifts into formality, like it's only the presence of his oldest friend that shifts him into something resembling normal, casual behavior. "I had no idea that this was the cafe you spoke of owning!"

Dedue's eyes rest on Felix, and there is nothing in them but warmth. "So you must be the Felix he spoke of."

"We met during group therapy," Dimitri explains, and maybe that does bring a smile to Felix's face, but he'd never admit it. "Now you have to do well during this interview!"

Felix barely resists the urge to stick out his tongue. "I always do my best."

As it turns out, Dedue agrees, and he treats them both to two large lattes flavored with petals of sweet pea in celebration.


	11. thankful for you

By the time Felix and Ingrid make it to the interior of the monastery, the professor and Dimitri have both risen from the dead, but Sylvain has not miraculously appeared among their number. Not that he would have, of course - he'd long made his choice - but Felix had foolishly hoped all the same.

Ingrid, for all her spite and vitriol that so deftly matches his own, gives him a look that conveys sympathy and her own sorrow, then charges forth into the fray. As always, Felix knows no other option but to follow.

There is no time to look at the flowers that might be underfoot. War is not the time to remember the language of love that Glenn managed to impart before he was dead and buried, not when there is no one he would wish to speak it with anymore. He cannot feel the ground beneath his feet through his boots, but he imagines that there are petals bleeding out across his soles.

Even from here, with so much space between them, Felix can make out the boar's snarls. He takes a deep breath; combat is not the time.

Entry wound, exit wound. Diagonal slice across the chest. Puncture a lung to ensure it collapses. Felix knows what to do here, at least, and for a moment, for the duration of the skirmish, he can almost forget about Sylvain.

Almost.

* * *

Felix gets the job, and he's so happy that he could scream. Maybe _happy_ is the wrong word - it's more like relief, the pleasure that pumps through his veins - but it's the closest emotion that he can name.

"We're stopping by the flower shop, yes?" Dimitri asks, grinning so broadly that he might have been mistaken for a proud father had his face not been the same as a posh infant's.

"Why would we?"

"To share the good news, of course!" Dimitri looks affronted that Felix could have even dared to consider anything else. "Ingrid has been your friend for ages, you know, and Sylvain did help you prepare. I think it would only be right, wouldn't it?"

Fuck, Dimitri really is like a father. It's absolutely sickening. Still, he does miss Ingrid's blunt honestly, Sylvain's soft teasing. Even if these two parallel lines had never crossed before, perhaps it would be a good thing. After all, Dedue had been...well, he had been kinder than Felix had believed most people could be.

"Fine." It's not far, anyway, and the longer he can be out of the house, the better.

"By the way, when are you putting in your notice?" Dimitri asks as they set off, one loping footstep after another. The tall bastard that he is, Felix has to scramble to keep up. "I must confess, I'm rather excited to hear about you giving them a piece of your mind."

"You're a cruel bastard," Felix retorts, but again, he is smiling. "That's probably why we make such a good pair."

Silence is pleasant enough, though, and both of them know it. The walk to the shop, such as it is when the time that it takes is only a few minutes, is punctuated with no more conversation. It's nice, really, to have someone that understands him so implicitly.

The bell above the door jingles one and a half times as they enter the flower shop. Felix tries not to be too offended.

"Hello, welcome in!" Ingrid's voice calls, warm but a little too high to be truly genuine; Felix knows customer service all too well. Her head pops around from the back room and her face clears as she sees them. "Oh, Felix! I haven't seen you in a bit."

Dimitri steps forward, all polite cheer and gentle charisma. "Ingrid, correct? Felix has told me about you. It's a pleasure."

Despite herself, Ingrid seems more than a little pleased by his polite demeanor - she's never been so happy to see _Felix_. He doesn't blame her, though; Dimitri has that effect on just about everyone. "Then you must be the famous Dimitri! He swears about you a little less than he does everyone."

"I am honored." Dimitri slips him a not very sly wink. "I know that's not something to be taken lightly."

"Shut up." Maybe if Felix flaps his hand enough, he can make his best friend shut up _and_ fan the color from his burning face. "Is Sylvain here?"

"Not today." Ingrid too looks far more knowing than he feels comfortable with. "So no free flowers for you."

Felix's protest is drowned out by Dimitri's gasp.

"Not a word," he hisses, but to no avail; his best friend is on that like a dog on a bone.

"Free flowers? I've never heard about that."

"_Shut. Up._" Felix socks Dimitri in the shoulder, and this time, he actually manages to make the tall bastard wince. "I just want to get a damned bouquet."

"What's the occasion?" Ingrid says, far more smooth and diplomatic than the frustrations Felix and Sylvain put her through would indicate. "You know what they all mean. Do you have a message picked out?"

"It's a gratitude bouquet," he grumbles, loath to admit it as he is.

Dimitri leans against the counter with a conspiratorial grin. "You heard that he was looking for a job, right?" Ingrid nods, mirroring his enthusiasm like the two of them are old fishwives, and Felix is hit by a sudden wave of nausea.

_Ingrid, with her hair chopped short to her shoulders. Dimitri, snarling and missing an eye. Sylvain..._

"Felix?"

Dimitri is looking at him questioningly, and Felix feels the jagged edges of his nails dig into the meat of his palms.

"Are you alright?"

"Just thinking," he says, and Dimitri presses no further. "Dark pink roses and hydrangea, if you would."

Ingrid is also watching him like he's a powder keg ready to explode, but for once, she too holds her tongue. "Do you want to pick them out?"

"Do it when you see Sylvain. They're for him, after all."

If he stomps out post-payment as Ingrid softens, then only Dimitri will really judge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @kingblaiddyd on twitter


	12. zinniabodement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this early chapter brought to you by ludo <333

There is hardly a moment to breathe before the now combined forces of the Lions and Garreg Mach are under attack once more, but this time, Felix knows there is more to armor than what he wears, and he weaves a cluster of red and deepest pink zinnias into the garments above his heart, standing out against the blue like a blossom of blood.

"It's good to see you, Felix," Annette says, and he's surprised that the lines of worry creasing on her forehead are still familiar to him. "I wish we had more time to talk before we had to fight again."

"This is war," he points out, but when those lines only deepen, he sighs and claps a hand against her shoulder. "There will be plenty of time for talk once we take care of these Imperial idiots."

Maybe his words are more of a comfort than he'd expected; maybe she just remembered the sort of person he's been as long as she's known him. Either way, Annette smiles at that, and it feels good to know that he can still pull that expression from someone despite all of his shortcomings.

"You'll watch my back out there, right?" she asks, and there is nothing but cheer in her voice. Felix is used to that, though, and he knows where to look for the feelings that are hidden. It takes him a little longer than...it might have with someone else, but the fear becomes so obvious that he wonders how no one else sees it.

Where is Mercedes? It should be her offering her support, not him, the idiot who fucks up even when he's trying to be nice.

Still, he has made the mistake of appearing dismissive when he is out of his depth before. He won't do it here, not again.

"Of course," he says. "Just as I trust you to watch mine."

It's rare that he ever allows himself to be so vulnerable, but he finds it's worth it to see Annette's wide smile, her natural cheer restored.

Maybe he even feels some of it, too.

This peace only lasts as long as he can't see the battlefield, can't see his opponents. Then the bloodshed begins, and the only thing that Felix can think about is how each rider that he unseats, each cavalier that he guts with brutal efficiency, could be Sylvain.

He could kill him and never know, not with the helmets of the Empire concealing every identity.

Sylvain isn't dead, though. Felix would know, and with bitter certainty, he knows that whatever stars orchestrate his fate won't allow him to get away that easily.

Not once during the battle does his battlefield buttonhole threaten to shed its petals, and if they are pristine by the end of it, when this moron Randolph has been dealt with, then Felix takes it on faith he's never had that wherever he is, Sylvain is just as whole.

* * *

Felix quits his job the next day.

Everything that he's read browsing foodservice and retail subreddits until the wee hours of the morning, and everything that Dimitri has told him about catharsis dictates that he should be feeling vindicated, but instead, he just feels small.

There is a lecture on responsibility, about having the decency to give notice, or at least the start of one. Felix cuts them off with a jagged laugh, one so incredulous that the managers that are there are stunned into silence.

"Don't you _dare_ have the nerve to talk to me about respect when you run your goddamn mouth about whoever isn't sucking up to you at that moment. I've known boars with better manners, and I'm finished corrupting myself by being around you filthy lowlifes."

If tears threaten to gather at his lashes, ripe with unshed anger, then he beats them back furiously. He will not bleed in front of sharks.

When he stomps out, the drink he made himself clutched in his hand and his hat and apron crumpled on the floor of the closet that passed for an office, he finds Sylvain sitting in the parking lot, grinning from behind the wheel of his obnoxiously red convertible.

"What the fuck?"

"I'm happy to see you too, Fe."

Another moment that seems to rewind time and leave him with not quite memories. _Sylvain, eleven years old and sticking his tongue out in concentration. There is a tree, and it's theirs, and there are a sword and a lance. In a way, the weapons belong to both of them in equal measures._

This time, Sylvain seems to feel it too. He startles, almost as though he's been shoved, but when their eyes meet again, Felix can't remember what it is he'd been thinking about.

"Why are you here?" Felix asks, suddenly tired. His head hurts, but then again, suppressing tears for so long will do that to you.

"I got your message." Sylvain gestures to something in the backseat, something that Felix can recognize almost embarrassingly as his bouquet. Still, Sylvain doesn't seem mocking; in fact, he seems genuinely appreciative. Not that he had expected anything else, really, but it's...nice. "And, well, Ingrid told me that you were quitting today, and I thought you might appreciate a little backup. Or a ride home if you don't want to hang out, I guess. I know things like this can be a lot, yeah?"

What is he supposed to say to that? Felix is dumbfounded, and for a moment, there is a flicker of some long-dormant fire in his chest.

So he resorts to what he knows best. "No flower for this situation? Couldn't find a bouquet that says 'sorry your job blows so hard'?"

Sylvain laughs so brightly it makes Felix's teeth hurt. "I could have made one, probably, but I do have a flower for you." As he reaches behind his seat, Felix can make out the edge of a smile. "Besides, you know them so much better than I do. It's a little intimidating."

"Good." Even this token resistance softens under the warmth of Sylvain's gaze, though, and when he's given a bright yellow zinnia, petals soft as a caress, the cock of his brow has no resistance or heat behind it. "What am I supposed to be remembering?"

"Me." Sylvain's cheeky wink is enough to earn a sharp jab to the ribs, but he only laughs, falling against the side of his car. "And how I'm practically right next door to you now."

"You're like, a street away."

"Close enough."

Distantly, Felix realizes he's smiling. "And is that a good thing?"

And for every inch, Sylvain takes a mile. "Definitely."


	13. lady's purse

How very like Rodrigue to direct the Lions and their forces to the Valley of Torment. Felix can't damn him to Ailell and back; that's rather the point, after all. Goddess, he seethes, and though it's the only reasonable plan, he still loathes Dimitri for agreeing to it so readily. Just because the future king is ready to throw himself upon an eternity of torture doesn't mean that he wants to be there to see it.

Byleth comes to talk to him, as she always does. At this point, he doesn't think she can help herself, really, but for the most part, he doesn't mind.

It's nice to have someone to be honest with, someone with only a positive history. Maybe that's unrealistic, but it's how he feels all the same.

_Above all, I hate the crazed nonsense that comes out of his mouth._ He is rarely anything less than honest about his distaste for Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, but he has come closer to the whole truth with his former professor than he has with almost anyone else.

_I hate that bullshit our fathers spew about Crests and knighthood... What does it matter, anyway?_

Perhaps he should have said it more.

Ingrid says she feels Dimitri's anger as keenly as though it's her own, but there is only one person Felix has ever felt that way about, and he's on the side of the enemy. Will this be the time that they finally die?

Ailell is as hot as the fires that Fraldarius men would have everyone believe wait for the wicked after death. For him, so close to the northern border, his face feels as though it will melt odd, and there is only one person he can imagine hating the climate more. Perhaps it's out of deference to his permanent ghost (that makes him begin to sound like Dimitri, and isn't that a treat?) or because he's almost certain that Sylvain would never intentionally show his face here, but he does not complain.

Gwendal goes down far easier than a man of his skill has any right to, and by the time they've wrapped up this farce of a fight (he is sweating and nervous, anger and betrayal flowing out through the tip of his sword), his father has deigned to show himself.

There are not enough men, but even he can recognize that that isn't necessarily Rodrigue's fault.

He wanders off to the side as Rodrigue consults with Gilbert, Dimitri, and the professor. Certainly, he has to be there, even if his father cares for the king's well-being more than that of his son, but that doesn't mean he has to stand at attention.

There is a cluster of slipperwort nestled in the deep crack that splits the paltry hill they have chosen to debrief upon, and Felix has to blink back what he tells himself is just excess sweat.

_We stay together until we die together._

It's an incredible weakness, an enormous disadvantage, but Sylvain really does have everything that Felix is.

* * *

"What if I leave an incredibly angry Google review in like, a week?" Sylvain asks, face deadly serious except for the twitch of his mouth as he shifts lanes, weaving through traffic in a way that has Felix positive that the other drivers want to kill him. "I'm a local guide. I'll just completely wreck their shit, say that their coffee tastes like ass and that the management is really disrespectful. Maybe I'll even throw something in about a previous barista who was good."

Sylvain is, surprisingly, a really good listener. It's not just nodding at all the right moments, either, but a genuine care that has something in Felix's stomach squirming. "Who the fuck allowed you to become a local guide? Also, where the hell are we going?"

"Literally all you have to do is attach your Google account. It's absurdly easy, actually." Sylvain takes the next turn tight, and there are at _least_ three separate cars honking at them by the time they've actually rounded the corner. "Also, I was thinking dinner and a movie?"

The cheesy wink Felix gets is so disgusting that it leaves his stomach churning. "I am going to puke all over your goddamn car."

"Leave Dorte alone!"

"_Dorte_?"

Sylvain laughs, and does even his laugh have to be attractive? Felix is going to file a damn complaint. "Yeah, I got her from a friend of a friend. Named after a horse, if you can believe that."

"I hate you." He doesn't hate the pull of wind through his hair, though, even if bits and pieces fly in his face and stick against his mouth.

"Is that a no to going to a dine-in theater, then?" This time, when Sylvain gets honked at, it's actually not him who's in the wrong. Leaving out the side, Felix flips the culprit off with both hands, just to be thorough. "Holy shit, Fe."

"Depends on what we're watching," he says as he settles back into his seat, a small smile playing across his face. It feels good to be angry, to have someone support him and laugh as he exorcises it.

"Shitty Disney movie or a jumpscare-filled slasher film are my bets."

"Those aren't even titles, dipshit."

"But you know what I'm talking about, right?"

Sylvain pulls into the parking lot of the theater like he never doubted that Felix would agree, and there's an absurd part of him that admires him for that. "I guess we're doing the slasher, then."

Even though Sylvain teases him all the way up to the ticket window, he's still too fast to allow Felix to pay for his own ticket, even if that makes him grumble and swear. He almost gets away with it when they buy their popcorn, too, except Felix catches his arm just before he slides his card in, and he hasn't kept himself strong for nothing.

"Quit paying for everything, asshole," Felix grumbles and if the girl with the bright orange hair behind the counter snorts out a laugh, then he ignores that, too.

Still, Sylvain remains undaunted, grinning as smugly as if Felix has prostrated himself and declared that he's inferior. "Tell you what, if you let me pay, I'll leave that Google review."

"Both of those things are what _you_ want to do."

The girl behind the counter is actually laughing now, and Felix fully aware that they probably both look like idiots right now, but he, at least, has a point to prove.

"Come on, Fe," Sylvain coaxes, and there's a familiar tone to his words that has him melting against his will. "It's gonna be funny. I'm a professional when it comes to stirring the pot, you know."

And Felix lets go. He tells himself that it's only because a line is beginning to form behind him and he doesn't want to be _that_ guy; in truth, there's something about the dimple that appears when Sylvain is wheedling, pressing all of his buttons, that makes him think he'd do anything to keep it there, that he always had and always would.

The theater isn't too crowded, and the movie isn't quite as shitty as he'd been imagining. The plot has fewer holes than most of its genre, and the acting is actually passable. Sylvain is a talker, constantly leaning over to whisper in his ear, which would normally get swift - and physical - retaliation, but he's actually funny, and if Felix is honest, it actually makes the whole experience even better.

When the movie closes on a shot of blood-streaked, crimson carnations, Felix can taste iron in the back of his throat, but he's smiling all the same.

"So?" Sylvain asks as they get up, pushing aside the food and popcorn they had devoured without really realizing it. "Did that live up to everything you hoped it would be?"

"You say that like I begged you to bring me here." Still, the happiness is so obvious on his face that it's undeniable. "It wasn't bad, though."

That ever-present grin seems to turn a little more genuine at the corners. "Good."

It hits him that Sylvain cares enough to plan all this out, to make Felix feel something close to normal after what should have been a bad day, and his chest aches. "Thank you."

"No problem." Sylvain winks, over-exaggerated and cheesy even as Felix softens further. "Now, what do you say to ice cream? I'll even let you pay for your own."


	14. bittersweet with sugar on top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy easter come get y'all juice

Their time before Myrddin cannot be without consequence, of course, because even in times of relative peace - moments to breathe, Glenn used to laughingly call them - Felix is not allowed to lower his guard. Dimitri is still snapping and snarling at anyone who even looks as though they'll disturb his silent vigil, and Ingrid has fallen into solemn reflection. He doesn't blame her for this, of course, knowing how angry she is that House Galatea can't be of more help. He doesn't have the words to tell her that he thinks she's doing plenty just by being here, but Goddess, he hopes she knows.

Ashe ruminates about lives left unlived, a time where he might have had to stand in opposition to his house and home for the sake for Lonato's land. Mercedes talks about baking sweets with extra rations while Annette remembers the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

Sylvain is not here with them.

What would he be saying, were he to be among the people who should have loved him above all? Maybe he would be cracking jokes, flirting with Annette just to see the smile on her face grow and the worried crease of her brow disappear. Ingrid would no doubt have to shout at him to make him stop following her around, giving her more and more absurd compliments just to give her something to be angry at other than herself.

Maybe he would retell the story of how Lord Gwendal had all but lopped his head off for flirting with his daughter, but Felix would never know, not with the ways things are now.

Sylvain is Felix's phantom limb, aching with his absence, and no matter what he does, Felix knows that the hole he's carved will remain with him forever.

If bittersweet blooms on monastery grounds, then he isn't surprised. Memory mocks him in all things, after all.

* * *

Ice cream with Sylvain is better described as an experience, one that refuses to be anything but all-inclusive.

At most, Felix had expected Baskin Robbins; realistically, looking at the state of his own wallet and imagining that Sylvain's couldn't be much better, he'd thought drive-thru McFlurries wouldn't be too far off base. Instead, Sylvain - who apparently knows every square inch of this city inside and out - drives them to a niche organic shop, its windows plastered with evidence of food awards that Felix hadn't even conceived of.

"They've got some really interesting flavors," Sylvain says as he swings himself out of the car in an impressive display of agility for someone who's so... much. "You'll like them."

From anyone else, these words might have sounded like a justification, but there's no reason for Sylvain to worry about what he thinks of hipster ice cream. "Fine, whatever. If there's meat ice cream, I'm going to kill you, but I think I can survive a little bit of _weird._"

He gets out of the car like a normal person, thank you very much, and when Sylvain opens the shop door for him with a mocking little bow, he doesn't even snap that much. The inside is pleasant, cheerier than anywhere he might normally go, but there are floral accents everywhere. Even if they're fake, Felix feels right at home.

Sylvain makes small talk with the cashier, something bright and pleasant and full of a high falsetto that Felix should probably hate on principle. Instead, he lets the calm of the lo-fi playlist that washes gently over every corner of the shop soothe the anxious energy that fizzes at his fingertips, and he studies the flavors in the case intently.

And yes, it turns out that some of them are weird - beets in ice cream should be banned, probably, but maybe it's better than the immediate face he pulls would suggest - but there's plenty that sounds _good_.

He ends up with a brown sugar, pecan-laden masterpiece, while Sylvain goes with kolache, of all things, and, true to his word, Sylvain does let him pay.

Instead of letting them sit, though, the bastard makes Felix wait as he uses the fathomless warmth of those eyes to wheedle a few shakes of what looks like sugar onto both of their ice creams.

"This wasn't sweet enough already?" Felix bites out once they take their seats at a table in the corner.

"It's lavender sugar, Fe. You'll like it. Besides, there's nothing that's too sweet for you."

"Gross." He kicks out before Sylvain can do anything as absurd as winking again and laughs at the exaggerated groan of pain he receives in return. Still, when he bites into his ice cream (then immediately changes his mind and switches to licking), it's delicious. "Maybe you have some good taste, though."

Sylvain is looking at him fondly, as though he's something fascinating, but for once, Felix doesn't feel as though he's being pinned like a butterfly to a corkboard.

_You look so lovely framed by the flowers. If all angels looked like you, I'd be a devout man._

He's never said those words, never had them spoken like a lover's soft caress, but here in this pretentious little ice cream parlor, he feels a little bit beautiful, a little bit like a man worth looking at.

"This is a good date spot," Sylvain remarks, chasing a melted drop of ice cream down the side of his cone with his tongue, and Felix rolls his eyes even as he feels his face heat with a feeling he can't quite name.

"So?" He averts his gaze back to the mouthwatering dessert in his hand, unsure where these flashes of fire erupting in his chest are coming from. "Do I look like the sort of person that's looking for date ideas?"

He says is scathingly, but Sylvain only laughs, as lighthearted and carefree as ever.

"Oh, so you're allowed to say negative things about yourself, but when I compliment you, you go berserk?" The glare he gets in return for that comment only sets him off further. "You could be. You're definitely _very_ attractive."

Even as he can feel the tips of his ears heat, Felix levels an unimpressed glare his way as ice cream drips onto his fingers. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you think I could go on a successful date with anyone you know."

Sylvain does, and Felix has no choice but to hide the ruddiness that has overtaken his cheeks (_Oh,_ he knows what this is now.) behind his hand as he sucks the fallen ice cream off.

When he raises his head, Sylvain is blushing, too.

"I call bullshit," Felix says, but his voice has gone husky and low. He's down to the cone now, but he would eat even that stupid beet ice cream just for a few more seconds of this charged moment.

"Maybe I'll prove it to you someday." With that, though, Sylvain gets up - when he had finished, Felix really couldn't say - and stretches with a nonchalance that he can't help envying. "For now, though, we should get you home."

"Am I gonna turn into a fucking pumpkin?" he bites out, hoping he can cover whatever remains of that tension that had buried in his blood with words almost like a wisecrack. "I didn't realize I had a curfew."

It would be more than reasonable, Felix knows, to recoil from this sudden emergence of what might be his temper. Sylvain, damn him, just laughs.

"Something like that," he says, plastic leaves crafting him a halo. "Now come on."


	15. give me pearls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this early update brought to you by berry!

It's only because he's thinking about Glenn that Felix overhears the conversation at all, and the irony isn't lost on him for a second.

Rodrigue is dreaming idiotic nostalgia, the words pouring from his mouth like a poetic tsunami, and Felix wonders how it is that the professor isn't running for her life. Not everyone has the same instinctual loathing that he feels, though, and maybe that's a good thing, just so he can remind himself why it is he's fighting against this cursed name and title so strongly.

His father speaks of the Garreg Mach of his youth, and Felix wonders whose ghost he's chasing.

Then Rodrigue speaks of Glenn, and it's not the boy he was that fills that accursed voice (the one he misses in his weakest moments) with longing and tortured misery, but the knight that Felix's brother used to be. Oh, Goddess, how he seethes at that; neither of them deserves Glenn, both in life and in death.

Would there be vindication if Byleth sent Rodrigue away and didn't allow him whatever measure of solace he's trying to grasp here? It's not in her nature, but he longs for it nonetheless.

She has taken his side before, though, and for all her blank face and apparent lack of care, she has sympathized with him a thousand times over. Perhaps Felix isn't so far gone that he can deny his father comforts where he can extort them; he is no monster, after all.

Not to anyone but one.

"After it happened, I said something horrible to Felix," Rodrigue says, and if Felix bends down to rip out the sowbread that blooms at his feet, then that is only because it mocks him with meaning and malice. "He's hated me ever since... and I don't blame him. No matter how much you grieve, the dead will never return. No magic in the world can bring them back. That's why their memory clings to the living like a curse. The more they were loved, the tighter their hold, and the more suffering they cause... I fear I am not a strong enough man to scold His Highness for his foolishness."

_What right would I have_? Maybe that's what this silence means, but Felix won't hold his breath.

"Someone must," Byleth says, and beneath her normal flattened empathy is an undercurrent of steel, one that he envies the strength of.

Rodrigue sighs, as defeated as he has sounded every time he's spoken to his remaining son. "Right you are... As adults, it is our responsibility to scold him and help him find his way again, but really... I'm just a failure of a man."

This is an opinion the Fraldarius family can agree on, for once.

"Professor... I entrust the young prince, and the future of Faerghus, to you."

At that, Felix's stomach drops - why had he ever expected this rumination to be in any way related to him? Byleth is speaking again, but he can no longer hear her above the pounding of blood in his ears, and he savages those picked sowbread blooms as he stalks away, uncaring of who sees him.

He does not believe in the voices of the dead. If he did, he would have to believe that Glenn is ridiculing him.

* * *

Felix no longer knows what to think about the living creature that seems to pulse in his chest at every opportunity when Sylvain makes his presence known. It's been three days since _whatever_ he's supposed to call their impromptu meeting in front of his now ex-place of work, and he's losing his goddamned mind.

_As much as you're my type, I don't date people I actually enjoy spending time around._

He's not sure what he would prefer the outcome of this _friend date_ to be.

Either way, his first shift at Earth's Bounty has been pleasant, and it's been nice to have a distraction from all the thoughts swirling in his head. There's more creativity afforded to the individual here, and Dedue is honestly the nicest person he's ever met.

It's just _nice,_ and Felix really doesn't know how to handle it. He thinks he could learn, though, and that's something to celebrate in and of itself.

Really, if it wasn't for Sylvain (and the ever-present issue of Rodrigue, though that's more genetic makeup than problem at this point), he might even consider himself content.

"You did well," Dedue says, startling him out of his dishwashing reverie.

"Shit!" He nearly drops the green-glazed plate he'd been washing, then winces. Swearing in front of your new boss: great job, Fraldarius! "Sorry."

Dedue lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug, but there's a small smile playing on his face that tells Felix he's enjoying this. "I don't mind, as long as you keep it polite in front of customers. Besides, I snuck up on you. I believe we can call ourselves even."

"Thanks." Unbidden, Felix can feel his skin start to crawl. _Oh, so you're allowed to say negative things about yourself, but when I compliment you, you go berserk?_ "And thanks for the compliment, I guess. I... like it here so far."

"Good." Dedue's gentle smile widens, and Felix can see why it is that Dimitri likes him so much. "Ashe will be here any minute for the evening, but you're more than welcome to leave now. I'll see you tomorrow."

Is it sad that this consideration for his schedule has Felix reeling? "Yeah, sure," he says, because there's nothing else in his vocabulary that can top that for niceties, and he takes off his apron with less eagerness than he can ever remember having. "Uh, have a good day."

"You too," Dedue replies, and then he's gone, whisking a tray of artisan bagels back through the door with him.

When had Felix stopped mocking the advertisement of anything that felt the need to label itself _artisan_? Dimitri would have a field day with this if he ever became stupid enough to confess it.

His phone chimes softly when he turns the ringer back on and clocks out, Dimitri's timing as eerily impeccable as always. He fires off a quick text about his day with marginally less swearing than unusual, then sees that he still has unread messages.

Well, it sure as shit isn't Rodrigue.

And, of course, because the world refuses to let him sit with positivity for any meaningful length of time, it's from Sylvain. _There's no fucking reason for you to be nervous, shithead,_ he reminds himself, but it seems as though the message is lost on him once again. _Quit making shit up because you're lonely._

That's an admittance in and of itself, but there's no time to address that; his thumb has opened their chat without his consent.

There's a link to a review, approximately one thousand winky faces, and absolutely nothing else. As he opens the link, Felix finds he has no choice but to declare himself a little bit smitten, just for the moment.

_This place has never been great, but there's been a sharp decline in the quality of food, drink, and service lately. The coffee tastes like it's brewed the night before, the hashbrowns were still frozen, and management yelled at a barista who was attempting to do damage control. I used to actually enjoy going there, but I haven't seen some of the familiar faces behind the counter that I'm used to. Don't go until their management gets a complete overhaul and they learn to retain baristas who know what they're doing._

Scratch that, Felix is head over heels.


	16. crowning beloved

The march to Myrddin is grueling, more so because there is no comfort to be found in others - all so damnably focused on Dimitri because Felix has his _father_ now, for whatever that's worth - and even less to be found by withdrawing.

In Felix's worst moments, he wonders why he has neither friends nor family that have ever chosen him first.

There is far too much time to think.

Byleth comes to march beside him, doing her rounds in a way that might have seemed cursory and cold were it not for how intimately the Lions now know their former teachers and guardians. Now too, she smiles, and if it doesn't have the buoyant exuberance of someone like Annette or the wide care of Mercedes, then no one begrudges her that; she is someone entirely different, after all.

"Is he sane?" he gripes to her one day, gesturing to the figure of Rodrigue astride his horse, trotting beside His Feral Highness. Byleth shrugs a shoulder in a way that he can only ever understand as her tacit agreement but for the manners she has begun to learn, and he takes that as encouragement to continue. "He's leaving the house in my uncle's hands? What is the old man thinking? I always knew my father was mad, but this time he's gone too far."

She takes her time with the answer to his unspoken question, the hand he has reached out for the touch of another. It's something he's always appreciated about her; no matter how it _feels_, she has not known them for long at all, and she always tries to do her best by them all.

If Felix is bitter that there isn't another in her place, one that would know the answer before the inquiry is even finished, then that's not her fault, and he won't take it out on her.

"I agree," she says after that long moment, as level as ever. No more really needs to be said, after all, and she would not lie to him about her feelings in so important an avenue, even if it would be what he wants to hear.

"My uncle is a reliable man," he amends, whatever vestiges of family loyalty that reside within him spilling out, unwanted. "But still. Only a fool would abandon his own territory."

There is something else beneath that statement, some admission that he doesn't want to look too closely at, but if Byleth sees it, she says nothing.

This far south, he does not know the names of most of the flowers that are crushed beneath horse hooves and careless feet, though he knows Glenn would have. One he almost recognizes, though, and if it's because he knows the appearance of every flower that starts with _G_, then that only makes sense.

He tries not to watch as those are stomped upon and torn, but the idea that he's ever been able to avoid hardship that easily is mere folly.

* * *

So this is almost certainly the worst idea that Felix has ever had, and there are quite a few to choose from. In the short walk from Earth's Bounty to the flower shop, he's berated himself for showing his pathetic, overblown hand at least a dozen times between sips of the coffee Dedue had foisted upon him on his way out.

("Tell me what you think tomorrow," he'd said in that way of his, as though even this technical demand was more of a suggestion. "I'm considering switching our light blend to this one, and I'd like your input."

What a novel idea that had been.)

There have been more than a few concerned looks thrown his way, certainly. Passersby look askance at him with varying blends of concern and outright alarm as he mutters aloud, but he's _processing_, dammit. How is he supposed to convince Ingrid that what he wants isn't a big deal when it feels like he's getting a fist blown right through his stomach and out the other side?

Of course, that only means that another terrifying thought occurs to him as he rounds the final corner. What if it's _not_ Ingrid that's there? Certainly, there are other workers, even if Ingrid and Sylvain are both the only ones he knows and the two who are there more often. It's not them he's worried about, though.

No, what he's really concerned with is that it will be Sylvain behind the counter, teeth bared in that insufferable smile and shadow tracking him like an embrace. What is he supposed to say then? _Hi, I just wanted to buy a metric ton of roses so I can make you a stupid fucking crown to thank you for leaving a goddamn Google review? I'm hopelessly in love with you for showing the vaguest interest in me so I'm going to fumble with this idiotic arts and crafts project that I haven't done in a decade and probably stab my fingers to hell and back? You remind me of a life I have never lived, and looking at you for too long makes me dizzy in a very literal way, so I'm courting you like a goddamn Victorian dandy?_

Yeah, any of those will go excellently, he's sure. Felix Hugo Fraldarius, king of making rational and informed decisions.

Half of the massive cup of coffee is gone before he works up the nerve to push open the door to the flower shop and step inside, and if he's done permanent nerve damage to his tongue from guzzling down hot liquid like there might be answers at the bottom, then at least he can't feel it.

It's Ingrid behind the counter, and he's not sure whether or not to be relieved.

"Felix!" she calls, a wide grin on her face. "How was your date?"

He almost drops his cup at that, and that more than anything is what amply answers his question. _"What?"_

She grins mischievously at him as she rounds the counter, and if she weren't so _Ingrid,_ he would probably hate her with everything he has. "Just a little payback for storming out on me when you were here with your friend."

Okay, maybe he deserves that a little, then. "Sorry."

She flaps her hand at him dismissively. "Water under the bridge. We probably took it too far, anyway. What are you here for today?"

"Roses," he mumbles, hoping against hope that if he makes his answers laconic enough, she won't guess what he's after.

"So it was a date, then!" she cries, clapping her hands together, and he really should have known that privacy would be too much to ask for.

"No!" Trudging over, he sets his cup on the counter just so he can put his head in his hands. This was a horrible idea, and he should have seen that from the outset. "I'm just trying to make a gift."

"Is it for Sylvain?"

The baleful glare she gets in response should serve as more than a good answer.

"Cute." She sounds insufferable smug, and Felix wonders if any of the garden tools they sell could be used to skin himself so he doesn't have to listen to any more of this. "You should surprise him with it."

"Yes, Ingrid," he manages, pouring as much of the inner anguish he feels at the direction of this conversation into his words as is physically possible. "I'll show up to his house, the one whose address I don't know, like a fucking creep to give him a shitty flower crown. That makes complete and total sense and definitely _wouldn't_ serve to irreparably damage whatever kind of relationship I'm hoping to get out of this."

Still, she doesn't seem like she's in any mood to be deterred. "Then I'll go with you. We can surprise him to hang out and you can casually give over your weird flirting device, just like you want."

"And why would you do that?"

"Because I want to see how this goes down. Besides, I'm your friend, numbnuts."

"I hate you," he says with feeling, but he lets her help him weave the crown in white and red anyway.


	17. vae victis

Gilbert gives his militaristic direction (the only thing he is good for these days), but even to a stranger, Felix is certain that the rabid rage in the boar's eyes would be more than obvious. Even now, with time and company to aid him, he still bows to no reason, obeys no master but the invisible.

It's disgusting. It's heart-wrenching.

"So the enemy has prepared for our arrival..." Is it Felix's imagination, or does the man he no longer knows sound more tired than usual? Looking askance at Annette's sorry excuse for a father, he can tell that the old bastard sees it too. "It matters not. I will kill them all, whether they are one or one hundred."

But exhaustion would not halt a mad creature, would it? (_Monster,_ says the most uncharitable part of him. Felix, loath though he might be to admit it, is not ready to discard those remaining to him quite so easily. He has few options these days.

"That's not necessary." Byleth is as firm as she has ever been when giving instructions, and if he were possessed of a more vivid imagination, Felix might be able to believe that he's back at the monastery, training for a battle that would not come, wars that would not tear the world apart as he knows it.

There is a hollow, hungry void that pulsates at his side, though, and he will never have peace as long as he knows it.

Dimitri is talking again, and no matter what he wants, Felix cannot drown it out. "What would you do, if you saw the people who stole everything from you? If you saw them right before your eyes, living carefree lives and feeling no guilt?"

Does Sylvain feel guilty for leaving him behind?

"Would you feel nothing? Do nothing? Five years ago... Did you not deem the woman who killed Jeralt to be unforgivable? I am most certain that you did. You couldn't let her get away with her crime, so you took up your sword in pursuit."

And Byleth, for what flaws she possesses, cannot be called a hypocrite, even as she sighs her displeasure at having to concede to the madness eating at Dimitri. "You're right."

"Precisely my point." His face goes something close to soft then, and abruptly, Felix feels as though he's intruding on a private moment. "We're the same, you and I."

He cannot stand this bond, this all too tangible reminder of that which he used to have, that which he never had at all. "You're wasting your time," he cuts in. "There's nothing to be gained from exchanging words with a boar that had lost its mind."

Gilbert protests. He will hear none of it.

"This is war. Every last one of us has lost someone we care for. But we choose to suppress our anger and go right on living. Do you know why?"

As always, Byleth picks up the thread that he has cast out, eagerly seeking someone of a like mind. "Because it's pointless."

"That's right. All the boar is accomplishing is stacking up more corpses."

"Tell me, Felix..." the boar snarls, and any gentle rounding to his tone is gone. That tracks with the reactions of most. "If the dead are beyond reach, is it not also pointless to mourn or even bury those who are lost?"

_Like Glenn,_ he doesn't have to say, and that's a step too far.

"Ha. That mind of yours." Felix blinks back tears that have never _been there,_ dammit. "I'm done here. Remember, Professor. It's not compassion for this fool that has brought our army so far. There are those of us who despise the Empire, and those who side with the church. If we keep running down this path, it's only a matter of time before the ground beneath us collapses."

"That's enough, Felix," Rodrigue interjects, but who had ever asked him?

"Hmph. You're a damned fool, old man." Too much of one to ever side with his only living son, but what is Felix when he could be traded for the king?

"The soldiers are ready to march on your command." Rodrigue speaks as though nothing Felix has said even matters.

Later, as he braids Annette's hair tightly so it won't fall in her face, he weaves nasturtium in with the copper-gold.

"What's this for?" she asks, but he can tell she finds the blossoms pretty, at least.

"Luck." And that's the only force that will save them.

* * *

All things considered, the crown doesn't look half-bad, though Felix suspects that has more to do with Ingrid's skill than his own.

"You know, I thought that this was going to be one of those gifts that's cute because it's the worst thing anyone has ever seen, but this is actually pretty good," she announces conversationally, like that's not absolutely cruel. It _is_ funny, though (and a fair assumption), so he just laughs.

He _might_ have a bit of a fucked up sense of humor.

What isn't a surprise, though, is that Ingrid drives a truck.

"Please tell me you don't have truck nuts. Otherwise I'm not going anywhere with you."

She makes a face, but that's quickly followed by a thoughtful one. "Maybe I'll get some in case of emergency."

"What, like some kind of me repellent? Hate to break it to you, but I really don't want to be in the macho-mobile for any longer than strictly necessary anyway."

"You're such a dick," she gripes, but at least she finds him funny. There was another time when she didn't. Or was there? The memory slips away like a fish through his bare hands, but Ingrid does not look like Ingrid. How unsurprising would it be to discover he's becoming delusional.

"You are what you eat," he says, slashing the air with his hand, and she's really laughing when they both haul themselves into the cab.

Unlike his ride with Sylvain, they manage to pass the ride in relative silence, content to listen to whatever indie shit is drifting like summer dust motes from her speakers.

Does it surprise him when the houses thin out, when they get larger, when they head in the general direction of his own? Felix can no longer tell when he's been caught off guard by sick coincidence. He could have known Sylvain for far longer than he does now, might have known him since childhood if only he were a bit luckier.

Sylvain has lived in the same house all his life, just as Felix has, so when they pull into a driveway just as few streets from the Fraldarius household, he could rage forever.

"You know the game plan, right?" Ingrid asks, apparently oblivious to the internal conflict that churns in his stomach.

"The _game plan_ is for me to pass off the crown with at least some measure more subtlety than the fucking gratitude bouquet, then sit on my ass until I get kicked out. It doesn't get much simpler than that."

She side-eyes him with all the skeptical dramatics of a bastard academic. "And you could still fuck it up with that sort of attitude, smartass."

Somehow, that settles him more than platitudes ever could. "So let's see if I do."

The heels of his boots thud loudly against the concrete as he hops out of the truck, and the air is eerily silent in the way that only the well-off can cultivate. No child plays outside here, no raucous parties disturb the air; it would be alarming if Felix weren't already used to it.

For a moment, Felix is sad and he doesn't even know why.

Then they're at the door, Ingrid is knocking, and it's being opened by a sturdy-looking man with less friendliness on his face than Felix sees in the mirror.


	18. modus vivendi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oop ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to lauren for a certain line ;)

Another battle in a war without end.

Perhaps Myrddin is what truly brings the scope of the hell that king and country have marched him toward into focus. It's not the first great structure of Fódlan to be hit by the forever gouging claws of war, but the monastery had unequivocally been Edelgard's fault, its wounds inflicted and accrued before its residents could raise a blade and know their cause.

The Great Bridge, however, belongs more to Dimitri, to Faerghus, than any battle waged thus far.

To Felix, this one is the most sickening of all.

Sometimes he wonders how Claude can stand it, this endless suffering that must be inflicted for the wishes of Fódlan's grandmasters to come to fruition. Edelgard has her ideals and a near-religious mania backing her, while Dimitri has his delusions and thirst for revenge, but what place does a man seemingly like any other have among gods and monsters?

Perhaps there is truth to the idea that leadership lies in the blood, that rulers are demons born and bred for the task.

Even as he swings his blade again and again, nothing less than flawless technique from a man who can accept nothing else, his mind wanders to these helpless truths. Were it not for the machine-like precision of his body, Felix knows he would be dead thrice over.

Then he is fighting Lorenz, and despite what he knows his friends think, what his own first instinct shouts, he feels nothing for him save sympathy.

_He's a traitor_, the others think, and not without good cause. After all, even if he's merely abiding by the wishes and expectations of the Gloucester name, it's still the Alliance he eschews, still his friends that he forsakes.

Still, Felix can feel nothing but an unabiding sorrow for him, and even as he dodges a lethal strike from the pompous ass's lance, he hopes that wherever he is, someone is thinking of Sylvain the same way.

Then it's over, and Lorenz's blood does not stand out from the other splatters that stain his armor. Felix is no longer so naive as to believe it should. There is nasturtium blooming from the ruins of the Gloucester heir's chest, and Felix's only regret is that it could not serve him and Annette both.

* * *

In the split second before he is expected to uphold the most basic of social niceties, Felix processes three things.

One: this man looks like Sylvain, but only in the most superficial way possible. Certainly, the color of their eyes and their hair is the same, and they're both broad-shouldered and imposing, but while Sylvain radiates fire, from the warm light of his eyes to his casual, burning touches, this man is all ice.

Two: he is almost certainly Sylvain's father. Even though he looks like a belligerent ass (and something deep inside whispers that _he is_), Felix can see how he might have raised the man Sylvain pretends to be, insouciant and careless of other people's hearts. The man Felix had thought him to be.

Three: if he speaks anything like he looks, Felix might not make it through the front door before being charged with assault and battery.

Ingrid takes the flower crown from his hands without even asking, but for once, Felix doesn't protest; he has a feeling he knows what she's thinking here, after all.

"Mr. Gautier!" she says, false brightness scoring her usual blunt manner. "So good to see you! Is Sylvain home?"

Mr. Gautier snorts, and Felix is surprised at how much the man looks like an ornery bull, ready to charge them both if they so much as breathe wrong. "Yes, for once. You must be exceptionally lucky. I never know who he's-"

Then he seems to properly register Felix for the first time, and his eyes narrow as he takes in everything from the Cvlt Ov The Svn shirt to the blank look on his face.

"And who are you?" he asks, all the derision of a mob condensed into one man. Felix _hates_ him.

"Felix." Ingrid is standing close enough to elbow him subtly, but he can't bring himself to care, not when every fiber of his being screams that he _hates_ this man. For once, he can't bring himself to ignore that. "A pleasure."

Inexplicably, Fuckface Gautier's expression shifts at that into something markedly more open. "Fraldarius, is it? Your father and I do work together from time to time."

_Lovely._ "What a coincidence," he says, hoping he sounds like he cares.

"Is this your boyfriend, then?" Gautier asks, shifting focus back to Ingrid - and away from Felix - so completely that Felix can see how he and his father might get along. Then he registers what the man's actually _said_, and his head spins. Not that they talk romance all that often (or at all, before Sylvain), but since when has Ingrid even indicated that she's interested in guys?

Her smile is so bright he can spot its falsehood from a mile away, and then he understands. At least now he has a legitimate reason to feel like he's regressing back to caveman days.

"No, Felix and I only met a few months ago!" she says, so chipper Felix's teeth hurt. "But we brought him a gift, so if you don't mind..."

Gautier grins, and it's an ugly thing. "I'm sure he'll appreciate the gift from a pretty girl," he says, and then he's stepping aside just as Felix seriously thinks about that battery charge once again. He follows Ingrid's lead as she all but tears up the stairs, and he thanks her for this in his head because it gives him no time to look at the stark white walls with hardly a picture in sight, an uncomfortable echo of his own home.

Even Sylvain's door is barren, and something tells Felix that it's not entirely by choice.

The knock Ingrid performs is just that - a performance in its own right - and the door swings open only when it's finished.

"Not now, 'Grid, I-"

And Sylvain and Felix are both stopping short, Sylvain presumably because the idea of Felix in his house is one he'd never considered before, Felix because this is the worst he's ever seen Sylvain look.

There's paint all over his arms, dotting them like pastel freckles, and Felix's chest aches with a feeling so strong yet nebulous that he can't give it a name. Old soccer shorts frame his legs _uncomfortably_ well for something so baggy, and his shirt, printed with musk rose clusters, is snug around the shoulders in a way that wrings his lungs free of air.

"Hi, Felix," he says, his voice soft, and Felix might have let his nails bite into his palms again were it not for Ingrid's snort.

"Hi," he says instead, and even though Ingrid shoulders past them with fond disdain on her face, they stand there for a moment, frozen for reasons. Felix can only name for himself. "Sorry for... just showing up."

Sylvain smiles, and the tired look that had been so present only a moment ago all but vanishes. "Are you kidding me? This is the best surprise I've ever gotten."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter @kingblaiddyd


	19. a reprieve?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes there are no flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i updated the tags with some heavier hitters! jsyk, this chapter does contain the f slur. it's self-directed and questionable as to whether harm was really meant, but if that's a trigger, stop reading at "He really, really wishes..." and pick back up at ""Don't talk like that""
> 
> all you're really missing is Sylvain explaining why Ingrid took the crown (which you can guess) and Ingrid hitting his shoulder
> 
> take care of yourselves, loves

It's a concession to how much Felix has come to care for his friends that he is even here in the first place. Mercedes flutters around him like a songbird with a mission, a palette of goddess-knows-what in her hand as she searches for a brush. Felix had always thought brushes were adjacent to combs, ready to be discarded in favor of tugging his fingers through knots and hissing when they pulled at his scalp, but Annette had assured him before she left to work her magic on Ingrid that this was not always the case.

"You really will look lovely," Mercedes says, her back still to him as she gives up on the brush and daubs some sort of powder on her finger. How she can guess the course of his thoughts is beyond him, but he supposes he is nothing if not predictable.

"Why would I want to look _lovely?_" he spits instead of all that, picking at a silver thread on his shirt and hoping he sounds irritable instead of breathless.

"Because it's fun!"

That had not been the response he'd expected, not with _someone_ wearing a matching shirt threaded with gold just two doors down.

_She knows,_ he thinks, _but she won't say unless I do._

Abruptly, he is very glad for Mercedes and her seemingly infinite supply of cosmetics.

"I suppose I wouldn't mind it for a night," he admits and feels vaguely like a flower under the sun as she beams back at him.

"Hold still," she says, and after what feels like a wretched eternity of being poked, prodded, and powdered, she steps back, a satisfied look on her face. "Now you're ready. Do you want to see?"

"Yes," he admits readily, surprising himself and possibly her as well, though he'd never admit it. She hands him a mirror, and he cannot help the way he gasps.

In the flickering mixture of the waning daylight and his single candle, every feature looks sharp, drawn with a knife's point, pale and shadowed as the moon. His eyes are luminous after whatever Mercedes did, like melting pools of amber, and if his mouth - his _lips_, don't be shy, he hears her chide - is redder than normal, then he likes how it makes him think of blood and silk both.

"What's the verdict?" she asks, as though she hasn't just watched his world tilt off its axis. "Do you pass muster?"

There isn't enough air in the world for him to muster a response with the proper amount of ice, so he just nods, mute and amazed.

"Good." She seems to mean it, too. "Now, will you let me put your hair up now that you can see I do a good job?"

Here is what he likes about Mercedes: he is eighteen and wounded, flayed open on the steps of the monastery as an opening attraction for the ball, but she does not let that deter her. If she wants to be nice, she will be, but there is a particular brand of brutality she wields, and she is not afraid to use it on him.

"I guess," he says, which really means yes, but they both know that anyway.

* * *

Sylvain's room is nothing like what Felix had expected.

Of course, his car had been clean, and, save for this moment, Sylvain has always looked put together, but he had assumed there had to be a secret tidal wave of clutter _somewhere_. Instead, his walls are a stark white, his furnishings spartan, and briefly, Felix wonders if they've actually come to a guest bedroom instead. Ingrid had known he would be here, though, and in the corner, there is a well-loved easel, its legs set in deep furrows in the carpet.

Perhaps this is where Sylvain sleeps, but it can hardly be qualified as _his_.

When Felix thinks of his own room, though, and how he's still picking shards of glass out of his rug weeks later, he wonders if this is actually just another way Sylvain is better than him.

"So, Fe," Sylvain says as Felix picks his way into the room, slouching back with his arms crossed. It should look contrived - it does - but something about the pose makes Felix want to _make_ him care.

Forcibly.

But Sylvain is talking again, and he'll be damned if he doesn't pay attention. "Couldn't get enough of our chance meetings? I'm flattered, really."

He is saved from a response by the sound of Ingrid gagging, but as Sylvain's eyes shift to her, Felix becomes acutely aware that she's still holding the flower crown, and it leaves his tongue tied.

"Oh, leave off it, Ingrid." Then Sylvain visibly straightens at the sight of the gift, excitement flashing in his gaze and running through him like a live wire (_Stop looking at his legs, goddammit_), and Felix knows his end is night. "Wait, did you make me a flower crown? I thought you said you'd never do that again after I left you at cotillion to go chat up that cute brunette."

Ingrid flushes, and Felix has to rescue the crown before she can damage it with the balling of her fists. "First of all, that was a dick move and you and I both know it. But no, I didn't make it. Felix did."

He really, really wishes his friends had any amount of tact.

Sylvain's eyebrows shoot up, but before Felix can assess whether that's good or bad, he grins in a way that's a little too bitter to be fully convincing. "Smart move, then, carrying it in. Wouldn't want daddy dearest to think I'm a faggot."

Felix flinches back with a force he hadn't thought possible unless struck, but before anything can force its way out - and what a brutal, gore-streaked path it would leave - Ingrid smacks his arm just short of full strength.

If memory serves, it still hurts like a bitch.

"Don't talk like that," she hisses, teeth all but bared. "Especially when Felix doesn't have context."

There is still something frozen over in Sylvain's savage stare, but the tension that had gathered like storm clouds in his shoulders drops, even if Felix's doesn't. "Sorry," he says, and even if he doesn't look it, Felix believes him.

"Care to explain where that came from?" That damn roseate knife is there on Sylvain's nightstand and in Felix's voice, and he has the mad urge to take it up and hurl it into the wall, into Shitdick Gautier, into the canvas on the easel that he cannot see. Anywhere that would leave a mark. "Or are you of the mind that you can say whatever you want and get away with it?"

"I'm going to get some water," Ingrid mumbles as she slips back out the door.

Felix only has eyes for Sylvain.

"You met the piece of shit downstairs, didn't you?" For a moment, Sylvain is all fangs and curled lips, and this, Felix can understand, even if the resulting pain in his head threatens to tear him in two. Then he deflates, and with all his fight gone, he is almost pathetic. "Imagine me saying 'Hey, Dad! I think dudes are hot! Check out these flowers the disreputable-looking guy you just met gave me!'"

Really, Felix has no reason to assume that the senior Gautier is actually that much of an asshole beyond a couple of comments and a snap judgment, but he knows (_You know._), and even if he didn't... Sylvain is a good liar, but not when it comes to him.

(_You know. Why wouldn't he lie to you? You know._)

"Would he not assume they're work-related?" he asks instead. "Why do you think he'd assume romance?"

Sylvain reaches for the flower crown, and Felix relinquishes it without a fight. It _is_ meant as the first step of courtship, after all. "Unity? Every time I'd look at it, there's no way I'd be able to keep from blushing, Fe."

That will get a thousand precise little scalpel cuts in the privacy of his own home, but for now, Felix just says, "Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter @kingblaiddyd


	20. visceral

When Mercedes is done, he does not look like Felix Hugo Fraldarius, destroyer of men and wielder of the Fraldarius crest. With a braid flush against his scalp and the remainder of his hair twisted into a plaited knot, he looks like Felix Hugo Fraldarius, breaker of men's hearts.

He thinks that wouldn't be so bad. Not tonight.

"Lovely," Mercedes repeats, looking far more smug than any person really should, but he'll let it go. She's done good work, after all.

"Thank you," he says, then winces. He is far too raw these days, alert with something that neighbors hope.

"Any time." She is as placid as ever - why should she not be? - and he envies her dearly. "Are you ready?"

For once, he refrains from snark and keeps his response to a simple nod. "After you."

As they step out into the hall, though, another door swings open as well. Like a dream creature crafted from longing and heartache, Sylvain is there, looking like a sculpture of a storied hero, like the paintings that line the walls of Dimitri's home. He always looks nice, of course; that's part and parcel of his easy charm. Like this, though, in formal wear that Felix hasn't seen him wear in years, he's dangerous.

Perhaps he should have thought through his stance on heart-breakers.

Then Sylvain's tea and honey eyes land on him, and his jaw slackens with surprise. Were Felix any more prone to bouts of irrationality, he might be offended, but as it is, he knows how different he looks.

"Holy shit." It comes out barely more than a whisper, but Felix is as attuned to Sylvain as he is to the call of the training ground, and he does not miss a single delicious syllable. "Give a man a break, Fe."

Mercedes slips off down the hall, presumably to attend to her own preparations, but he catches the subtle brush of her hand against his arm and tries not to think about why he might need bolstering. "Oh? Mistook me for one of your girls, did you?"

It's a callback to a day that feels distant now but had only been a couple of months back. Sylvain is the only person who's ever seen him in makeup before.

He is not a woman. It was... strangely freeing to pretend, but if there is anything that Sylvain is feeling, let it be toward the man.

"If it would make you mine, I'd mistake you for whatever I had to." The flippant statement is accompanied by a wink, of course, but he's softer than usual, quicker to turn serious. "But no. I'd know you anywhere."

Felix snorts, but Sylvain is still looking at him in a way that can't quite be described.

"I'm serious! You look really nice... beautiful, really, but when you scowl, that's one hundred percent you, no matter the occasion."

"You're disgusting." Still, he knows there's no disguising the fondness in his voice or the way his lips twitch into a semblance of a smile. None outside his childhood would even recognize it, of course, but that's the way things are these days. "Walk with me to the ball."

Sylvain fidgets, and the bloom of happiness that had begun to take root in his chest squeezes its vines around his heart instead.

"Ah, unless you have prior plans." He does his best to sneer, to not let sentiment consume him, but how can he help it when they look like they belong together? "Is this the night you engage yourself to some pitiful wretch who doesn't know you at all or is it more of your usual nonsense?"

Unexpectedly, Sylvain's expression clears at that, and he shakes his head decisively. "Hold on a second, okay?"

He ducks back into his room, and Felix hopes to the goddess that his oldest friend isn't about to come back out with the portrait of a woman he intends to seduce in hand.

He is sans art when he returns, however; instead, it's a small flower that he cradles, one that matches the one in his buttonhole.

Felix's breath catches in his throat, and his hand itches for a sword (for anything).

"Can I do the honors?" Sylvain asks.

_Goddess,_ let him not be wrong. "Of course," he says, voice only trembling a little. He curses himself for it all the same.

Then Sylvain is threading it through his buttonhole and securing it with more ease than Felix had believed anyone could possess.

His heart is in his throat, but Felix has to ask, no matter the consequence. "And what sort of flower are you seeing fit to give me?"

"Viscaria." Sylvain's hands drop from his chest, but he does not fully part from him; he loops his arm through Felix's and tugs him forward with enough strength that he all but stumbles. "You'll save me a dance, won't you?"

Sylvain winks, and Felix has never been more his.

* * *

For once, Felix has caught _Sylvain_ off guard, and there's something pleasant that stirs in the low of his stomach at the sight of the almost-blush that brings. What would it be like to have him red as a rose before him, petals spread in full bloom?

Damn, he needs a drink. If Ingrid really was getting water, he might just follow.

"Jeez," Sylvain says, all easy laughter again, but when he tilts his head, Felix catches that barest dusting of red on his cheekbones once again. "Give a man a break, Fe. I'd think you were flirting with me if I didn't know any better."

And maybe Sylvain really does think there's nothing more to this than another strange twist in their altogether odd friendship. Now would be the time to tell him, except he's just gotten through talking about what a shitty fucking father he lives with, so maybe not.

Instead, he settles on a nice, "Hm." He hopes that suffices.

Given the silence that stretches between them, he would venture to say that it doesn't.

There's a streak of a pale green that licks its way up Sylvain's forearm, though, and it's a place that's safe to stare, Felix finds himself tracing colors with hungry eyes, mind empty of anything else. The navy of midnight lives in a smear on his pinky while the reds and pinks of floral fire bloom in freckled fragments on his palm. By the time he finds the pale grey of the moon in a crescent on Sylvain's nail, Felix realizes he's crossed the small gulf between them and taken his arm in the slender spindles of his own fingers.

He is touching Sylvain. Sylvain, who doesn't seem to mind past curiosity as to what led him here.

"What are you painting?" he asks, lifting his head only to realize they are far closer than he'd imagined. When he takes a step back, every cell of his body screams at him that he's an idiot. "Or, what did you intend to paint before you decided to do yourself instead?"

"If you wanted to _really_ see me in body paint, all you'd have to do is ask," Sylvain teases, and Felix flushes despite how quiet he's being. They have to separate for Felix to see what Sylvain's been working on, but there's a moment where neither moves, and if it weren't for the muffled sounds of Ingrid and the senior Gautier talking, there would be nothing to propel them away from this moment.

Not for Felix, at least.

"Don't be an ass," he grumbles, but there's no heat behind his voice and they both know it.

There's a friendly amount of space between them now, but Sylvain catches _his_ arm this time, tugging him closer to the canvas, closer to him. There's a fleeting consideration for how quickly he can wrest himself free and step away should anyone come upstairs, but it flies away when he overbalances and crashes into Sylvain's side. Felix tries to swallow, but his throat has gone dry.

Then he sees the painting.

It's still half outline, a testament to the drying paint on the canvas and Sylvain's cheek, but it's _him_, Felix Hugo Fraldarius, arms outstretched and figure pulled into a ballroom position he has never been in before. Canvas-Felix looks half in motion, as though if either onlooker were to break this near-tangible tension between them, he would fly off into the next turn, spinning an invisible partner. Moonlight illuminates his face and threads through his clothing, and he is soft and severe in equal measures.

"Flowers will go around the figure kind of like a frame," Sylvain says, his voice only a half step above a whisper. It's not hard to notice how carefully he dances around naming the obvious, but it feels like a tenuous peace they hold after his earlier outburst, and Felix thinks he'd prefer to dream about this. "What do you think?"

They're still touching, still pressed half against each other, and Felix is dizzy with paint and Sylvain, but nothing could stop him from clawing words from the ruins of his throat. "It's wonderful," he breathes. "But what flowers are you going to put?"

"Viscaria." Sylvain's smile is audible, but Felix shifts to better look at him to watch the way it goes shy at the corners; he's too busy staring to ask himself how he knew it would do that. "In reds and pinks, I think, though it doesn't quite match the color scheme."

"And why those?" Maybe if he gets an answer, he'll finally know... what? What is there to know? "Instead of something more traditional."

"I want a dance to be saved for me."


	21. blooddrops on roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here it comes

By the time they make it to the ballroom, Sylvain has dropped Felix's arm, and Felix is trying to do a passable job of pretending he doesn't care at all. To him, the clammy cold of his palm and the sweat beading at the nape of his neck burn like a brand, but if Sylvain doesn't see the warning signs blazing like bonfires, then he has found a reason to pray to the goddess in thanks.

The already opulent ballroom looks like a particularly elegant dragon's hoard now, all golden light and delicate yellow and white bouquets. Here, everyone is dressed their best; Felix can finally count himself among them, though he's used to scorning the spectacle they make.

There in the shadowed corners and gilded clusters, a low murmur hums incessantly. Felix knows what it is, knows what anything that involves Sylvain draws, but for once, he is a focus in these swirling rumors, this nebulous gossip that determines winners in a game he does not know the rules of. He tilts his chin up anyway, lets the light catch against the red of his mouth, and hopes he looks at least twice as dangerous as he feels.

"Don't look now," Sylvain whispers, breath hot against his ear, and there is no chance of Felix looking _anywhere_ but determinedly ahead, hoping Mercedes's powders cover the flush rising insistently to his cheeks. "But I think those girls in the corner think you're looking damn handsome."

There it is; there is the bucket of ice water poured over his hopes and dreams. Sylvain doesn't even _know_, but he's already fighting the urge to gnaw at his lip. He digs his nails into his palms instead, and the momentary relief is all he needs to form a response. "You of all people should know I'm not interested."

For a moment, something Felix won't put a name to stirs in the depths of Sylvain's gaze, and his heart catches in his throat.

Then Sylvain is laughing, and whatever it was is now gone before he could even think to reach for it. "Well, find someone you _do_ like. This is a ball, after all."

And he is gone, because a girl has asked him to dance, and that's all it has ever taken to tear Sylvain away from him.

He dances once, twice, three times because it's what Sylvain would want, and once more because the professor asks, and he owes her that much.

Sylvain does not come to dance with him.

He knocks a vase of stupid fucking chrysanthemums over on his way out, and if it shatters, if he crushes buttery petals under his shoes, he _does not care at all._

He doesn't.

* * *

That is the final straw on a stack that Felix hadn't even realized was building. His head splits, and there is a ringing in his ears that sounds like grinding metal, iron screeching against steel, and he tumbles through the air, fingers scrabbling ineffectually at Sylvain's forearms as his knees slam against the carpet. It's a struggle to form any sort of thought through the onslaught, but he wonders if Sylvain's father will come up to discover the source of the noise, if he will assume it's drugs or alcohol or simply Rodrigue's youngest living up to his reputation as a fuck-up.

He hopes Sylvain doesn't get in trouble.

And that's a funny thought, isn't it, considering that Sylvain is an adult. He wants to puzzle through that, dissect what exactly has him so concerned, _anything_ to distract from the pounding of his skull, but this infernal headache has taken that desire and run with it.

Margrave Gautier, face indifferent even as a young Felix wails something about the temperature and someone's brother. Sylvain's father, snarling with rage after catching a prepubescent Sylvain and Felix sleeping in the same bed, whispering secrets late into the night. _Rodrigue,_ laying a hand on the shoulder of that thrice-cursed man, reassuring him of something Felix doesn't understand, but knows is wrong.

Sylvain, in a uniform Felix can almost recall, flouting dress code in a way he is grateful for. Sylvain, winking as he sends a wooden javelin sinking into a practice target. Sylvain, clapping Dimitri on the back and whispering something that makes the boy-king flush and Felix jealous.

Sylvain, all golden without a hint of silver on him.

He has enough sense to bite down on his hand to muffle the pained cry that tears its way from his chest, wounded and raw. Sylvain crouches down to where he's fallen and takes his face in hands that have no right being that broad, that warm. He's worried; Felix can tell in the slope of his brow and the pursed bow of his lips. He _knows_ Sylvain, knows him well enough to tell that beneath the concern, there is no surprise.

"Yes, no, or not now?" Sylvain murmurs, low and insistent as Felix's eyeteeth break skin. He is near senseless with information now, head twisting away from those searching eyes, but Sylvain is relentless, and even as a scream beats at the cage of Felix's lungs, he feels cared for.

"I _can't_ \- I don't _know_," he hisses, desperately trying to get a handle on his volume.

_"You look pretty," Sylvain says, plucking a flower from a bush to weave it into Felix's hair. "It would take everything a person had not to fall in love with you."_

"You can." Sylvain says it with such authority that, for a moment, the assault on his brain halts before kicking back into action. "I know you can."

_"I'm almost afraid to touch you," Sylvain continues. "You might not be real, and then I'd be heartbroken."_

Footsteps pound back up the stairs, and through the agony, he sees Ingrid peek into the door, her face dropping as she sees him. Distantly, he is aware that he's sobbing, great wracking cries that he muffles in his bleeding hand.

_"Hey, Syl?" he asks, twin stars lighting his face again. "Will you make me a promise?"_

"_What the fuck?"_ There's panic in Ingrid's voice, and Felix has the irrational urge to curse her out for that. _She's_ not the one shaking apart at the seams. "What did you do?"

_We stay together until we die together._

Sylvain's eyes don't leave him, but his tone is markedly harder. "Distract my father. Make up a story. One that's my fault."

_"If the dead are beyond reach, is it not also pointless to mourn or even bury those who are lost?"_

"I'm not going to get you in _trouble_, Sylvain-"

_Glenn is dead, the funeral procession acts as though this is a good thing, and Felix and Sylvain leave marigolds on his grave._

"Do it, Ingrid. Better me than him."

_"I love you," he whispers quietly, pressing his face into the unforgiving arm or that rests by his cheek. "More than I think I've loved anyone in my whole miserable life."_

Then Ingrid is gone, and Sylvain is less than a breath away. The pounding and fraying of Felix's entire body is secondary to the thrumming of his heart, and he begs _someone_ for help that never came.

"Yes, no, or not now, Fe?" There is no judgment, only understanding, and it's this more than anything that gives him the strength to bite feeling into his numb, heavy tongue.

"_I love you too, in case you hadn't guessed." Sylvain's tired resignation is more beautiful than a thousand smiling faces. "Suppose that's all my secrets laid bare."_

"Not now," he begs. "But someday."

Sylvain's smile is softer than he deserves. "I know, Fe. I know."

Then everything goes black, save for blood and blooddrops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)
> 
> twitter: @kingblaiddyd


	22. the curse of memory

Six months before Glenn dies, he leaves Fraldarius territory for what will be the last time, and something in Felix aches for a promise made, a promise kept. Sylvain is a fey creature now, only two years his senior and somehow already an entire world away for it. He flirts with women like his life depends on it, and with the taste of stagnant well water on his tongue and age to distill his memory, Felix wonders if it does.

It doesn't matter. Regardless of what his father has tried to instill in him, Felix is the baby of his family, and he's never been good at sharing.

"You take care of him now," Glenn had said, just as he always did when Felix blubbered while swearing to Ailell and back that he wasn't, speaking with Sylvain like either of them are adults. Perhaps Glenn is, as far as Felix is concerned, but Sylvain is still years off from that (_from leaving you,_ his hateful mind whispers). This time, though, there's a gentle mockery buried in those words meant only for Felix.

Glenn had always been good at ferreting out his secrets; there had nothing Felix didn't want to confess when basking in the safety of him.

"You know I always do," Sylvain had replied, and the familiar words had seemed to come as easily as breathing.

It is no longer quite the same.

Certainly, visits from the Gautiers are more numerous than usual, just as they always are when Glenn is away. They no longer get to share a room, Sylvain and Felix, much less a bad, but he is there all the same, just down the hall if Felix is brave enough to light a candle and look.

He is not, because in the daytime, Sylvain is smiling prettily at Anja, who has only recently become a kitchen maid but has lived her whole damn life on the Fraldarius estate without either of them talking to her, or Gillian, who is going on twenty and _far_ too old for him, or any other number of women.

Nighttime might be all they really have, but even so, Felix cannot bring himself to bridge that gap left by so much naked sunshine. He longs for the days of equal ground, where all any of them ever cared about was their friends. Maybe Sylvain had never quite gotten to have that, but the three of them - _Felix_ \- had been enough once.

It's not until the Pegasus Moon that Felix, stupid and hopeful in the way that can only happen right on the cusp of leaving childhood, finds the book.

It's not concealed within the cavernous corners and looming ledges of the Fraldarius library, so he can excuse himself for not having known of its existence. Besides, even if he ever _did_ go into _any_ library - he didn't - this book had been languishing in rot-fueled exile, mold and mildew seeking papery flesh to sink their teeth into.

It's there, hiding from the heavy-handed margrave and Sylvain's newfound obsession, that he leafs through each page. The parchment is old, discolored, and far too fragile for his far too careless nature, and the script is in a form of the common tongue so outdated that he can hardly make out full sentences. Still, he can't tear his gaze away from the spidery print or the beginnings of translucence at the edges of the pages. Then, as if by magic (and it _is,_ the him of now-then-not-at-all knows), his eyes light upon a page written in perfectly modern common, just as aged as the rest and no less confusing for it.

He should have left it alone. He should not have touched the book. He should not have scratched notes about relevant ingredients and phases of the moon into his skin with a crumbling, long-abandoned hunk of charcoal. The men of Faerghus are no longer renowned for magic in their blood; it should never have been a talent that bloomed in his tender veins.

Still, at not-thirteen and plenty-fragile, he had not stood a chance when he saw the binding spell.

* * *

Felix wakes an indeterminable amount of time later with his face pressed into soft cotton sheets, ones that smell like lilac detergent and the heady scent of Sylvain. Distantly, he hears voices, but they don't seem particularly raised. Perhaps there had been nothing to worry about, then.

The headache that seems to have followed him around has finally abated, and even as he catalogs the absurdity that a _meltdown_ could be the cure, he resolves to put that behind him. Best not to tell Rodrigue, either; he loves his father, but there doesn't need to be any more leverage between them.

He fumbles for his phone, raising his head a half-inch in the hopes that he will not have to abandon this unexpected sanctuary. Eyes still half shut, he taps out a one-handed text to Dimitri: _Think I had just had a panic attack (??) at Sylvain's._

Because he's a tycoon-in-training, Dimitri has his phone on him at all times, ringer on like a nutjob, and he doesn't have to wait a minute before getting a reply. Still, in that time, he checks the clock, and it's been, by his best estimate, only about five minutes since he hit the ground, sobbing and babbling about something he can't quite recall. His hand hurts like a motherfucker, but it doesn't seem to have bled onto Sylvain's sheets. Small mercies.

_I'm so sorry to hear that. Do you need assistance? And why are you unsure as to the nature of your moment?_

That's his best and oldest friend, terribly sincere and ready to drop everything for more of Felix's nonsense. _I don't think so, but I'll let you know. Also, I passed out, and I have no idea what triggered it._

_Felix._ The concern is palpable even from here, and Felix buries his nose into the sheets and inhales, weird or not. He knows what comes next. _You know I hate to bring it up, but Byleth really is quite good, and if you aren't comfortable seeing the same therapist as me, I can always ask her for referrals._

_You're probably right._ The words surprise him as much as he's sure they'll surprise Dimitri. _But I'll ask you later. I'm going to see what's happening._

He shuts his phone off before he can see whatever pride-filled drivel awaits him. _One crisis at a time,_ he promises himself, and heaves himself up. With a brief moment to retie the mess he's certain his hair has become and make an attempt at straightening his clothes, he opens the door.

Sylvain is on the other side, hand hovering in the air like he'd just been about to twist the knob.

"Hey," he says softly, and there is far too much fondness in that gaze for a man who's just watched Felix make a damn fool of himself. His eyes flicker to the puncture on his hand, no longer weeping but still smeared with blood, but they don't linger, instead returning to study Felix's face. "How are you doing?"

_Awful. Embarrassed. I want to jump out of a fucking window after getting Neosporin and a bandage._ "How am _I_?" he asks instead, hoping the arch of his brow distracts from the flush spreading down the stark lines of his cheekbones. "How are _you_, Mr. Make Up a Story?"

Sylvain winces. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that."

"Well, I should probably know what you said, right? Before or after I apologize, your choice."

"Hey, what?" Sylvain reaches out as if to touch him, but aborts the movement halfway through; Felix can't decide whether or not he's relieved. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"Then tell me what happened."

"Ingrid just said we were roughhousing." Still, there's a shifty expression on his face like he knows Felix won't like what he says next. "Dad just asked who started it. I said I did, and I apologized to him for misconduct and running the risk of jeopardizing relationships. No big deal."

"Has anyone ever said 'no big deal' about something and really mean it?" Felix asks, and then the full force of what Sylvain has just said hits him. "Wait, what the fuck? That sounds like you're apologizing to a fucked up combination of a parole officer and a medieval lord."

Sylvain lets out a miserable bark of a laugh, but Felix can see nothing funny about it.

"I'm serious."

"I know." The full force of that insufferably roguish grin is turned on him for a moment, but it all too quickly fades to something soft and awful. "Listen, Fe, I know what just happened-"

"Do you? Because I don't."

"I know." By the faintly pleased look that flits across Sylvain's face, Felix knows he's been waiting to say that. "But I do. Don't... don't ask unless you're ready for the answer, though."

Words without meaning press at his temples, and though they don't hurt, Felix thinks he understands. "Okay," he mutters, reluctant to the last. "Should we go confront your shitbag dad?"

But Sylvain is sweeping him up in a hug, soft and woodsy and lilac-scented. "In a moment," he says, and his voice trembles with a feeling that cannot be named. "Can I just have this?"

"Okay," Felix repeats, but on the inside, he is falling apart and reconstructing himself into something new.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m on twitter @kingblaiddyd


End file.
